Chapter 13 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
The blue domino
Thus disappointed, I gave up all hope of meeting her for whose sake I had come to the ball. She was either not there, or did not wish to be recognised, even by me. The latter supposition was the more bitter of the two; and goaded by it and one or two other uncongenial thoughts, I paid frequent visits to the “refreshment-room,” where wine flowed freely. A cup or two drove the one idea out of my mind; and after a while, I grew more companionable, and determined to enjoy myself like others around me. I had not danced as yet, but the wine soon got to my toes as well as into my head; and I resolved to put myself in motion with the first partner that offered.
I soon found one—a blue domino—that came right in my way, as if the fates had determined we should dance together. The lady was “not engaged for the next;” she would be “most happy.”
This, by the way, was said in French, which would have taken me by surprise, had I not known that there were many French people living in C—, as in all the large cities of Mexico. They are usually jewellers, dentists, milliners, or rather artisans of that class who drive a lucrative trade among the luxury-loving Mexicanos. To know there were French people in the place, was to be certain you would find them at the ball; and there were they, numbers of them, pirouetting about, and comporting themselves with the gay insouciance characteristic of their nation. I was not surprised, then, when my blue domino addressed me in French.
“A French modiste!” conjectured I, as soon as she spoke.
Milliner or no, it mattered not to me; I wanted a dancing partner; and after another phrase or two in the same sweet tongue, away went she and I in the curving whirl of a waltz.
After sailing once round the room, I had two quite new and distinct impressions upon my mind: the first, that I had a partner who could waltz, a thing not to be met with every day. My blue domino seemed to have no feet under her, but floated around me as if borne upon the air! For the moment, I fancied myself in Ranelagh or Mabille!
My other impression was, that my arm encircled as pretty a waist as ever was clasped by a lover. There was a pleasing rotundity about it, combined with a general symmetry of form and serpentine yieldiness of movement that rendered dancing with such a partner both easy and delightful. My observation at the moment was, that if the face of the modiste bore any sort of proportion to her figure, she needed not have come so far from France to push her fortune.
With such a partner I could not otherwise than waltz well; and never better than upon that occasion. We were soon under the observation of the company, and became the cynosure of a circle. This I did not relish, and drawing my blue domino to one side, we waltzed towards a seat, into which I handed her with the usual polite expression of thanks.
This seat was in a little recess or blind window, where two persons might freely converse without fear of an eaves-dropper. I had no desire to run away from a partner who danced so well, though she were a modiste. There was room for two upon the bench, and I asked permission to sit beside her.
“Oh, certainly,” was the frank reply.
“And will you permit me to remain with you till the music recommences?”
“If you desire it.”
“And dance with you again?”
“With pleasure, monsieur, if it suit your convenience. But is there no other who claims you as a partner?—no other in this assemblage you would prefer?”
“Not one, I assure you. You are the only one present with whom I care to dance.”
As I said this, I thought I perceived a slight movement, that indicated some emotion.
“It was a gallant speech, and the modiste is pleased with the compliment,” thought I.
Her reply:—
“It flatters me, sir, that you prefer my company to that of the many splendid beauties who are in this saloon; though it may gratify me still more if you knew who I am.”
The last clause was uttered with an emphasis, and followed by a sigh!
“Poor girl!” thought I, “she fancies that I mistake her for some grand dame—that if I knew her real position her humble avocation, I should not longer care to dance with her. In that she is mistaken. I make no distinction between a milliner and a marchioness, especially in a ball-room. There, grace and beauty alone guide to preference.”
After giving way to some such reflections, I replied—
“It is my regret, mam’selle, not to have the happiness of knowing who you are, and it is not possible I ever may, unless you will have the goodness to remove your mask.”
“Ah! monsieur, what you request is impossible.”
“Impossible! and why may I ask?”
“Because, were you to see my face, I should not have you for my partner in the next dance; and to say the truth, I should regret that, since you waltz so admirably.”
“Oh! refusal and flattery in the same breath! No, mam’selle, I am sure your face will never be the means of your losing a partner. Come! let me beg of you to remove that envious counterfeit. Let us converse freely face to face. I am not masked, as you see.”
“In truth, sir, you have no reason to hide your face, which is more than I can say for many other men in this room.”
“Quick-witted milliner,” thought I. “Bravo, Ranelagh! Vive la Mabille!”
“Thanks, amiable masker!” I replied. “But you are too generous: you flatter me—”
“It is worth while,” rejoined she, interrupting me; “it improves your cheek: blushes become you, ha, ha, ha!”
“The deuce!” I ejaculated, half aloud, “this dame du Boulevard is laughing at me!”
“But what are you?” she continued, suddenly changing her tone. “You are not a Mexican? Are you soldier or civilian?”
“What would you take me for?”
“A poet, from your pale face, but more from the manner in which I have heard you sigh.”
“I have not sighed since we sat down.”
“No—but before we sat down.”
“What! in the dance?”
“No—before the dance.”
“Ha! then you observed me before?”
“O yes, your plain dress rendered you conspicuous among so many uniforms; besides your manner—”
“What manner?” I asked, with some degree of confusion, fearing that in my search after Isolina I had committed some stupid piece of left-handedness.
“Four abstraction; and, by the way, had you not little penchant for a yellow domino?”
“A yellow domino?” repeated I, raising my hand to my head, as though it cost me an effort to remember it—“a yellow domino?”
“Ay, ay—a ye-ll-ow dom-in-o,” rejoined my companion, with sarcastic emphasis—“a yellow domino, who waltzed with a young officer—not bad-looking, by the way.”
“Ah! I think I do remember—”
“Well, I think you ought,” rejoined my tormentor, “and well, too: you took sufficient pains to observe.”
“Ah—aw—yes,” stammered I.
“I thought you were conning verses to her, and as you had not the advantage of seeing her face, were making them to her feet!”
“Ha, ha!—what an idea of yours, mad’m’selle!”
“In the end, she was not ungenerous—she let you see the face.”
“The devil!” exclaimed I, starting; “you saw the dénouement, then?”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed she; “of course I saw the dénouement, ha, ha!—drôle, wasn’t it?”
“Very,” replied I, not much relishing the joke, but endeavouring to join my companion in the laugh.
“How silly the spark looked! Ha, ha!”
“Very silly, indeed. Ha, ha, ha!”
“And how disappointed—”
“Eh?”
“How disappointed you looked, monsieur!”
“Oh—ah—I—no—I assure you—I had no interest in the affair. I was not disappointed—at least not as you imagine.”
“Ah!”
“The feeling uppermost in my mind was pity—pity for the poor girl.”
“And you really did pity her?”
This question was put with an earnestness that sounded somewhat strange at the moment.
“I really did. The creature seemed so mortified—”
“She seemed mortified, did she?”
“Of course. She left the room immediately after, and has not returned since. No doubt she has gone home, poor devil!”
“Poor devil! Is that the extent of your pity?”
“Well, after all, it must be confessed she was a superb deception: a finer dancer I never saw—I beg pardon, I except my present partner—a good foot, an elegant figure, and then to turn out—”
“What?”
“Una negrilla!”
“I fear, monsieur, you Americans are not very gallant towards the ladies of colour. It is different here in Mexico, which you term despotic.”
I felt the rebuke.
“To change the subject,” continued she; “are you not a poet?”
“I do not deserve the name of poet, yet I will not deny that I have made verses.”
“I thought as much. What an instinct I have! O that I could prevail upon you to write some verses to me!”
“What! without knowing either your name or having looked upon your face. Mam’selle, I must at least set the features I am called upon to praise.”
“Ah, monsieur, you little know: were I to unmask those features, I should stand but a poor chance of getting the verses. My plain face would counteract all your poetic inspirations.”
“Shade of Lucretia! this is no needlewoman, though dealing in weapons quite as sharp. Modiste, indeed! I have been labouring under a mistake. This is some dame spirituelle, some grand lady.”
I had now grown more than curious to look upon the face of my companion. Her conversation had won me: a woman who could talk so, I fancied, could not be ill-looking. Such an enchanting spirit could not be hidden behind a plain face; besides, there was the gracefulness of form, the small gloved hand, the dainty foot and ankle demonstrated in the dance, a voice that rang like music, and the flash of a superb eye, which I could perceive even through the mask. Beyond a doubt, she was beautiful.
“Lady!” I said, speaking with more earnestness than ever, “I entreat you to unmask yourself. Were it not in a ball-room, I should beg the favour upon my knees.”
“And were I to grant it, you could hardly rise soon enough, and pronounce your lukewarm leave-taking. Hat monsieur! think of the yellow domino!”
“Mam’selle, you take pleasure in mortifying me. Do you deem me capable of such fickleness? Suppose for a moment, you are not what the world calls beautiful, you could not, by removing your mask, also strip yourself of the attractions of your conversation—of that voice that thrills through my heart—of that grace exhibited in your every movement! With such endowments how could a woman appear ill-looking? If your face was even as black as hers of the yellow domino, I verily believe I could not perceive its darkness.”
“Ha, ha, ha! take care what you say, monsieur. I presume you are not more indulgent than the rest of your sex; and well know I that, with you men, ugliness is the greatest crime of a woman.”
“I am different, I swear—”
“Do not perjure yourself, as you will if I but remove my mask. I tell you, sir, that in spite of all the fine qualities you imagine me to possess, I am a vision that would horrify you to look upon.”
“Impossible!—your form, your grace, your voice. Oh, unmask! I accept every consequence for the favour I ask.”
“Then be it as you wish; but I shall not be the means of punishing you. Receive from your own hands the chastisement of your curiosity.”
“You permit me, then? Thanks, mam’selle, thanks! It is fastened behind: yes, the knot is here—now I have it—so—so—”
With trembling fingers I undid the string, and pulled off the piece of taffety. Shade of Sheba! what did I see?
The mask fell from my fingers, as though it had been iron at a cherry heat. Astonishment caused me to drop it; rather say horror—horror at beholding the face underneath—the face of the yellow domino! Yes, there was the same negress with her thick lips, high cheek-bones, and the little well-oiled kinks hanging like corkscrews over her temples!
I knew not either what to say or do; my gallantry was clean gone; and although I resumed my seat, I remained perfectly dumb. Had I looked in a mirror at that moment, I should certainly have beheld the face of a fool.
My companion, who seemed to have made up her mind to such a result, instead of being mortified, burst into a loud fit of laughter, at the same time crying out in a tone of raillery—
“Now, Monsieur le Poète, does my face inspire you? When may I expect the verses? To-morrow? Soon? Never? Ah! monsieur, I fear you are not more gallant to us poor ‘ladies ob colour’ than your countryman the lieutenant. Ha, ha, ha!”
I was too much ashamed of my own conduct, and too deeply wounded by her reproach, to make reply. Fortunately her continued laughter offered me an opportunity to mutter some broken phrases, accompanied by very clumsy gestures, and thus take myself off. Certainly, in all my life, I never made a more awkward adieu.
I walked, or rather stole, towards the entrance, determined to leave the ball-room, and gallop home.
On reaching the door, my curiosity grew stronger than my shame; and I resolved to take a parting look at this singular Ethiopian. The blue domino, still within the niche, caught my eye at once; but on looking up to the face—gracious Heaven! it was Isolina’s!
I stood as if turned into stone. My gaze was fixed upon her face, and I could not take it off. She was looking at me; but, oh! the expression with which those eyes regarded me! That was a glance to be remembered for life. She no longer laughed, but her proud lip seemed to curl with a sarcastic smile, as of scorn!
I hesitated whether to return and apologise. But no; it was too late. I could have fallen upon my knees, and begged forgiveness. It was too late. I should only subject myself to further ridicule from that capricious spirit.
Perhaps my look of remorse had more effect than words. I thought her expression changed; her glance became more tender, as if inviting me back! Perhaps—
At this moment a man approached, and without ceremony seated himself by her side. His face was towards me—I recognised Ijurra!
“They converse. Is it of me? Is it of —? If so, he will laugh. A world to see that man laugh, and know it is at me. If he do, I shall soon cast off the load that is crushing my heart!
“He laughs not—not even a smile is traceable on his sombre features. She has not told him, and well for him she has not. Prudence, perchance, restrains her tongue; she might guess the result.”
They are on their feet again; she masks. Ijurra leads her to the dance; they front to each other; they whirl away—away: they are lost among the maskers.
“Some wine, mozo!”
A deep long draught, a few seconds spent in buckling on my sword, a few more in reaching the gate, one spring, and my saddled steed was under me.
I rode with desperate heart and hot head; but the cool night-air, the motion of my horse, and his proud spirit mingling with mine, gave me relief, and I soon felt calmer.
On reaching the rancheria, I found my lieutenants still up, eating their rudely cooked supper. As my appetite was roused, I joined them at their meal; and their friendly converse restored for the time my spirit’s equanimity.