Chapter III: On the Campagna (4)

''For mercy's sake, Señora, put down your medicine, sit down in the rocking-chair and draw near to the bedside, for I have several questions to ask.

''How long has my present neighbor lodged with you, Señora,' said I, when she had duly ensconced herself. She gazed inquiringly at me, but when I pointed to the door behind her, she replied, with apparent _nonchalance_:

''Somewhere about three months.'

''And who is he?'

''That is a question I can not answer?'

''Why not?'

''Because, over and above his rent, he paid me five dollars to hold my tongue.'

''If I were to offer you ten to let it go, how would it be then?'

''_Ten_ dollars!' replied my hostess, in a ruminating tone of voice.

''Yes, _ten_ dollars.'

''I should feel it my duty to my fatherless children to speak,' said this excellent mother of the bereaved heirs of the defunct Lopez. 'Yes--holy Virgin, forgive me--but I should feel _bound_ to speak.'

''It is a bargain, then; Señora, proceed.'

''Your neighbor, Señor,' replied my hostess, in a low voice, 'is a heretic--an Englishman.'

''Not an American?'

''English or American--what is the difference, any way? I tell you he is a heretic, and you know we Mexicans make no difference between those heathens--we call them all _Inglez_.''

'The fair Teresa, I may remark, had always taken me for one of her fellow-countrymen, as I spoke the language fluently, and had been thoroughly sun-burnt years before.

''He arrived here, as I have already had the honor of saying, about three months since. He appears very sickly and exhausted, and from the look of his clothing I judge he had just returned from a long journey in the interior. 'Señora,' said he, when paying his bill in advance, 'I wish you to speak to no one of my residence in this house. I have no family, no country, and no name; I hate the world; I do not know a soul in this city, and I do not want to. I expect two inquiries to be made for me, one by a man, the other will be by a woman. I will not see any others. Should either of them call, their first salutation to you will be: 'The price of liberty is eternal vigilance.' Without that pass-word, I forbid you to allow any one to have access to my room.''

''Well, Señora Lopez, have these folks with the eternal pass-word turned up yet?'

''No, Excellency, during the whole three months he has not had a single visitor. Every morning when I take him his chocolate, he promises a dollar if I can find him a letter at the post-office. So every day I go, but unfortunately I have only found two for him in all that time.'

''But, of course, if you go for his letters, you must know his name, and surely you noticed where the two came from, which you received for him.'

''They were addressed to Albert Pride, and bore the stamp, 'New-Orleans.' But who knows whether that is his real name?'

''How does he spend his time?'

''He alone can answer that question. Since the first hour of his entering the house he has shut himself up in that room, and no one has seen him quit it. Between you and me, I confess candidly, that my opinion of him is by no means favorable. Why, would you believe, that though he is as thin as a rail and as pale as a ghost, he won't admit that he is even slightly indisposed. If I ask him about his symptoms, he gets angry; and if I offer him any of my specifics, he has the ill-manners to exclaim: 'Bosh! Oh! that man is a wicked fellow; I have no confidence in him!'

''Many thanks, Señora Lopez, for your information,' said I, handing her the promised reward'--_vaya vm; con Dios!_'

'After her departure I began to reflect that my own conduct had not been much less dishonorable than hers. What right had I to tear aside the vail of mystery in which my neighbor wished to wrap himself? I owned to myself that I was very clearly in the wrong. And yet, having made this concession to the claims of conscience, my fancy was busy putting together the scraps I had gleaned. The field of speculation was so vast and unbounded that I knew not where to stop. The starting-point was easy. Curiosity began by asking, Why the deuce, Albert Pride was so carefully hiding himself away in the city of Mexico? He must be a fellow-countryman; because an Englishman, no matter how branded at home, by fraud or dishonor, could boldly strut about New-Orleans or New-York, without submitting to voluntary self-imprisonment in the city of Mexico. Was he a fraudulent merchant, or a bank-defaulter? Good heavens! such gentlemen generally assume such a graceful _nonchalance_, or else laugh at their little transactions so good-naturedly that such a supposition was ridiculous. Well, then, perhaps he had had a personal difficulty? I think that is the phrase, is it not, for sending a fellow-mortal on his last long journey? What of that? that even would be no reason for concealment, for once in Mexico, what had he to dread? Thus I went on, tormenting my mind with suppositions and conjectures without end, until at last I resolved to dispel my apparently inextricable tangle of mystery by taking a walk, as soon as I had finished my breakfast. Accordingly I sallied forth, turned my steps toward the Alameda, and at no great distance from one of the fountains I sat down on a bench, beneath the shade of one of the grand old trees.