The Rifle Rangers by Mayne Reid (short novels in english TXT) đź“•
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- Author: Mayne Reid
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“Puchero, Señor Coronel?”
“Thank you, sir,” grunted the major, and tried the puchero.
“Allow me to help you to a spoonful of molé.”
“With pleasure, Don Cosmé.”
The molé suddenly disappeared down the major’s capacious throat.
“Try some of this chilé relleno.”
“By all means,” answered the major. “Ah, by Jove! hot as fire!—whew!”
“Pica! Pica!” answered Don Cosmé, pointing to his thorax, and smiling at the wry faces the major was making. “Wash it down, Señor, with a glass of this claret—or here, Pepe! Is the Johannisberg cool yet? Bring it in, then. Perhaps you prefer champagne, Señores?”
“Thank you; do not trouble yourself, Don Cosmé.”
“No trouble, Capitan—bring champagne. Here, Señor Coronel, try the guisado de pato.”
“Thank you,” stammered the major; “you are very kind. Curse the thing! how it burns!”
“Do you think he understands English?” inquired Clayey of me in a whisper.
“I should think not,” I replied.
“Well, then, I wish to say aloud that this old chap’s a superb old gent. What say you, Major? Don’t you wish we had him on the lines?”
“I wish his kitchen were a little nearer the lines,” replied the other, with a wink.
“Señor Coronel, permit me—”
“What is it, my dear Don?” inquired the major.
“Pasteles de Moctezuma.”
“Oh, certainly. I say, lads, I don’t know what the plague I’m eating—it’s not bad to take, though.”
“Señor Coronel, allow me to help you to a guana steak.”
“A guana steak!” echoed the major, in some surprise.
“Si, Señor,” replied Don Cosmé, holding the steak on his fork.
“A guana steak! Do you think, lads, he means the ugly things we saw at Lobos.”
“To be sure—why not?”
“Then, by Jove, I’m through! I can’t go lizards. Thank you, my dear Don Cosmé; I believe I have dined.”
“Try this; it is very tender, I assure you,” insisted Don Cosmé.
“Come, try it, Major, and report,” cried Clayey.
“Good—you’re like the apothecary that poisoned his dog to try the effect of his nostrums. Well,”—with an oath—“here goes! It can’t be very bad, seeing how our friend gets it down. Delicious, by Jupiter! tender as chicken—good, good!”—and amidst sundry similar ejaculations the major ate his first guana steak.
“Gentlemen, here is an ortolan pie. I can recommend it—the birds are in season.”
“Reed-birds, by Jove!” said the major, recognising his favourite dish.
An incredible number of these creatures disappeared in an incredibly short time.
The dinner dishes were at length removed, and dessert followed: cakes and creams, and jellies of various kinds, and blancmange, and a profusion of the most luxurious fruits. The golden orange, the ripe pine, the pale-green lime, the juicy grape, the custard-like cherimolla, the zapoté, the granadilla, the pitahaya, the tuna, the mamay; with dates, figs, almonds, plantains, bananas, and a dozen other species of fruits, piled upon salvers of silver, were set before us: in fact, every product of the tropical clime that could excite a new nerve of the sense of taste. We were fairly astonished at the profusion of luxuries that came from no one knew where.
“Come, gentlemen, try a glass of curaçoa. Señor Coronel, allow me the pleasure.”
“Sir, your very good health.”
“Señor Coronel, would you prefer a glass of Majorca?”
“Thank you.”
“Or perhaps you would choose Pedro Ximenes. I have some very old Pedro Ximenes.”
“Either, my dear Don Cosmé—either.”
“Bring both, Ramon; and bring a couple of bottles of the Madeira—sello verde,” (green seal).
“As I am a Christian, the old gentleman’s a conjuror!” muttered the major, now in the best humour possible.
“I wish he would conjure up something else than his infernal wine bottles,” thought I, becoming impatient at the non-appearance of the ladies.
“Café, Señores?” A servant entered.
Coffee was handed round in cups of Sèvres china.
“You smoke, gentlemen? Would you prefer a Havanna? Here are some sent me from Cuba by a friend. I believe they are good; or, if you would amuse yourself with a cigaritto, here are Campeacheanos. These are the country cigars—puros, as we call them. I would not recommend them.”
“A Havanna for me,” said the major, helping himself at the same time to a fine-looking “regalia.”
I had fallen into a somewhat painful reverie.
I began to fear that, with all his hospitality, the Mexican would allow us to depart without an introduction to his family; and I had conceived a strong desire to speak with the two lovely beings whom I had already seen, but more particularly with the brunette, whose looks and actions had deeply impressed me. So strange is the mystery of love! My heart had already made its choice.
I was suddenly aroused by the voice of Don Cosmé, who had risen, and was inviting myself and comrades to join the ladies in the drawing-room.
I started up so suddenly as almost to overturn one of the tables.
“Why, Captain, what’s the matter!” said Clayley. “Don Cosmé is about to introduce us to the ladies. You’re not going to back out?”
“Certainly not,” stammered I, somewhat ashamed at my gaucherie.
“He says they’re in the drawing-room,” whispered the major, in a voice that betokened a degree of suspicion; “but where the plague that is, Heaven only knows! Stand by, my boys!—are your pistols all right?”
“Pshaw, Major! for shame!”
The mystery of the drawing-room, and the servants, and the dishes, was soon over. A descending stairway explained the enigma.
“Let me conduct you to my cave, gentlemen,” said the Spaniard: “I am half a subterranean. In the hot weather, and during the northers, we find it more agreeable to live under the ground. Follow me, Señores.”
We descended, with the exception of Oakes, who returned to look after the men.
At the foot of the staircase we entered a hall brilliantly lighted. The floor was without a carpet, and exhibited a mosaic of the finest marble. The walls were painted of a pale blue colour, and embellished by a series of pictures from the pencil of Murillo. These were framed in a costly and elegant manner. From the ceiling were suspended chandeliers of a curious and unique construction, holding in their outstretched branches wax candles of an ivory whiteness.
Large vases of waxen flowers, covered with crystals, stood around the hall upon tables of polished marble. Other articles of furniture, candelabra, girandoles, gilded clocks, filled the outline. Broad mirrors reflected the different objects; so that, instead of one apartment, this hall appeared only one of a continuous suite of splendid drawing-rooms.
And yet, upon closer observation, there seemed to be no door leading from this hall, which, as Don Cosmé informed his guests, was the ante-sala.
Our host approached one of the large mirrors, and slightly touched a spring. The tinkling of a small bell was heard within; and at the same instant the mirror glided back, reflecting in its motion a series of brilliant objects, that for a moment bewildered our eyes with a blazing light.
“Pasan adentro, Señores,” said Don Cosmé, stepping aside, and waving us to enter.
We walked into the drawing-room. The magnificence that greeted us seemed a vision—a glorious and dazzling hallucination—more like the gilded brilliance of some enchanted palace than the interior of a Mexican gentleman’s habitation.
As we stood gazing with irresistible wonderment, Don Cosmé opened a side-door, and called aloud, “Niñas, niñas, ven aca!” (Children, come hither!)
Presently we heard several female voices, blending together like a medley of singing birds.
They approached. We heard the rustling of silken dresses, the falling of light feet in the doorway, and three ladies entered—the señora of Don Cosmé, followed by her two beautiful daughters, the heroines of our aquatic adventure.
These hesitated a moment, scanning our faces; then, with a cry of “Nuestro Salvador!” both rushed forward, and knelt, or rather crouched, at my feet, each of them clasping one of my hands and covering it with kisses.
Their panting agitation, their flashing eyes, the silken touch of their delicate fingers, sent the blood rushing through my veins like a stream of lava; but in their gentle accents, the simple ingenuousness of their expressions, the childlike innocence of their faces, I regarded them only as two beautiful children kneeling in the abandon of gratitude.
Meanwhile Don Cosmé had introduced Clayley and the major to his señora, whose baptismal name was Joaquina; and taking the young ladies one in each hand, he presented them as his daughters, Guadalupe and Maria de la Luz (Mary of the Light).
“Mama,” said Don Cosmé, “the gentlemen had not quite finished their cigars.”
“Oh! they can smoke here,” replied the señora.
“Will the ladies not object to that?” I inquired.
“No—no—no!” ejaculated they simultaneously.
“Perhaps you will join us?—we have heard that such is the custom of your country.”
“It was the custom,” said Don Cosmé. “At present the young ladies of Mexico are rather ashamed of the habit.”
“We no smoke—Mamma, yes,” added the elder—the brunette—whose name was Guadalupe.
“Ha! you speak English?”
“Little Englis speak—no good Englis,” was the reply.
“Who taught you English?” I inquired, prompted by a mysterious curiosity.
“Un American us teach—Don Emilio.”
“Ha! an American?”
“Yes, Señor,” said Don Cosmé: “a gentleman from Vera Cruz, who formerly visited our family.”
I thought I could perceive a desire upon the part of our host not to speak further on this subject, and yet I felt a sudden, and, strange to say, a painful curiosity to know more about Don Emilio, the American, and his connection with our newly-made acquaintance. I can only explain this by asking the reader if he or she has not experienced a similar feeling while endeavouring to trace the unknown past of some being in whom either has lately taken an interest—an interest stronger than friendship?
That mamma smoked was clear, for the old lady had already gone through the process of unrolling one of the small cartouche-like cigars. Having re-rolled it between her fingers, she placed it within the gripe of a pair of small golden pincers.
This done, she held one end to the coals that lay upon the brazero, and ignited the paper. Then, taking the other end between her thin, purlish lips, she breathed forth a blue cloud of aromatic vapour.
After a few whiffs she invited the major to participate, offering him a cigarrito from her beaded cigar-case.
This being considered an especial favour, the major’s gallantry would not permit him to refuse. He took the cigarrito, therefore; but, once in possession, he knew not how to use it.
Imitating the señora, he opened the diminutive cartridge, spreading out the edges of the wrapper, but attempted in vain to re-roll it.
The ladies, who had watched the process, seemed highly amused, particularly the younger, who laughed outright.
“Permit me, Señor Coronel,” said the Dona Joaquina, taking the cigarrito from the major’s hand, and giving it a turn through her nimble fingers, which brought it all right again.
“Thus—now—hold your fingers thus. Do not press it: suave, suave. This end to the light—so—very well!”
The major lit the cigar, and, putting it between his great thick lips, began to puff in a most energetic style.
He had not cast off half a dozen whiffs when the fire, reaching his fingers, burned them severely, causing him to remove them suddenly from the cigar. The wrapper then burst open; and the loose pulverised tobacco by a sudden inhalation rushed into his mouth and down his throat, causing him to cough and splutter in the most ludicrous manner.
This was too much for the ladies, who, encouraged by the cachinnations of Clayley, laughed outright; while the major, with tears in his eyes, could be heard interlarding his coughing solo with all kinds of oaths and expressions.
The scene ended by one of the young ladies offering the major a glass of water, which he drank off, effectually clearing the avenue of his throat.
“Will you try another, Señor Coronel?” asked Dona Joaquina, with a smile.
“No, ma’am, thank you,” replied the major, and then a sort of internal subterraneous curse could be heard in his throat.
The conversation continued in English, and we were highly amused at the attempts of our new acquaintances to express themselves in that language.
After failing, on one occasion, to make herself understood, Guadalupe said, with some vexation in her manner:
“We wish brother was home come; brother speak ver better Englis.”
“Where is he?” I inquired.
“In the ceety—Vera Cruz.”
“Ha! and when
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