Part 21 (2/2)
Thus the first time Mauro ever appeared before a public a.s.sembly was a chief espada of a cuadrilla of his own, at Valladolid. An apt pupil from the start, bent upon reaching the highest rank, of extraordinary strength and activity, utterly fearless but cool headed, a natural general, at the close of his first _corrida_ he was acclaimed the certain successor of the great Frascuelo himself, and at the same time christened _El Tigre_ (the Tiger) for the feline swiftness of his movements and the ferocity of his attacks.
The next eight years were for _El Tigre_ fruitful of fame and riches but utterly arid and barren of even the most casual feminine attachment.
Well educated, clever, with the manners of a courtier, and with physical beauty and personal charm few men equalled, he was invited by the n.o.bility often, received as an equal by the men and literally courted by the women. But the attentions of women were all to no purpose. For _El Tigre_ only one woman existed--Sofia, now the d.u.c.h.ess de Oviedo--though he had never again set eyes on her from the hour of their parting beneath the fig tree.
Owners of large Mexican sugar estates in the valley of Cuautla, the Duke and Sofia divided their time between Paris and Mexico. Their marriage was far from happy. Before their union, busy tongues had brought Count Leon rumors of her admiration for Mauro, rousing suspicions that were not long crystallizing into certainty that, while she was a faithful, honest wife, he could never win of her the affection he gave and craved.
Obviously proud of her, always devoted and kind, he received from her respect and consideration in return, which indeed was all she had to give, for the loss of Mauro remained to her an ever-gnawing grief.
Oddly enough, fate decreed that the destiny of Mauro and Sofia should be worked out far afield from their burning Utreran plains, high up on the cool plateau of Central Mexico.
For several years most generous offers had been made _El Tigre_ to bring his _cuadrilla_ to Mexico, but, surfeited with fame and rolling in riches, he had declined them. At last, however, in 188-, an offer was made him which he felt forced to accept--six thousand dollars a performance for ten _corridas_, to be given on successive Sundays in the Plaza Bucareli in the City of Mexico, all expenses of himself and his _cuadrilla_ to be paid by the management. And so, late in April of that year _El Tigre_ arrived in Mexico with his _cuadrilla_ and (as stipulated in his contract) sixty great Utreran bulls, for the bulls of Utrera are famed in _toreador_ history and song as the fiercest, most desperate fighters _espada_ ever confronted.
At the first performance _El Tigre_ took the Mexican public by storm. No such execution, daring, and grace had ever been seen in either Bucareli or Colon. _El Tigre_ was the toast in every club and _cafe_ of the city.
Every shop window displayed his portrait. All the journals sung his praises. Maids and matrons sighed for him. Youth and age envied him.
_El Tigre's_ coffers were well-nigh bursting and his cups of joy overflowing, all but the one none but Sofia could fill.
Where she was at the time _El Tigre_ had no idea. And yet, wholly unsuspected by him, not only were she and the Duke in Mexico, but both had attended all his performances at Bucareli, up to the last, inconspicuous behind parties of friends they entertained in their box.
Whether it was the Duke caught the pallor of Sofia's face in moments of peril for Mauro, or the light of pride and admiration in her eyes during his moments of triumph, sure it is the smouldering fires of the Duke's jealousy were rekindled, and he was prompted to plan a test of her bearing, when free of the restraint of his presence. On the morning of the last performance he announced that he must spend the afternoon with his attorneys, and must leave Sofia free to make her own arrangements for attendance at the last _corrida_.
And glad enough was she of the chance. The boxes were far too high above, and distant from, the arena. For days she had coveted any of the seats along the lower rows of open benches, close down to the six-foot barrier between the ring and the auditorium, close down where she could catch every s.h.i.+fting expression of Mauro's mobile face, and--where he could scarcely fail to see and recognize her. The thought of seeking in any way to meet or speak to him never entered her clean mind, but she had been more nearly a saint than a woman if she had been able to deny herself such an opportunity to convey to him, in one long burning glance, a knowledge of the endurance of the love her frightened ”Mauro _mio_” had plainly confessed the night of their parting beneath the fig tree. So it naturally followed that the Duke was barely out of the house before Sofia rushed away a messenger to reserve a section of the lower benches immediately beneath the box of the _Presidente_, directly in front of which Mauro must come, at the head of his _cuadrilla_, to salute the _Presidente_.
The city was thronged with visitors come to see _El Tigre_. Hotels and clubs were overflowing with them. And thousands of poor peons had for months stinted themselves, often even gone hungry, to save enough _tlacos_ to buy admission to the spectacle, to them the greatest and most magnificent it could ever be their good fortune to witness. The day was perfect, as indeed are most June days in Mexico. For two hours before the performance the princ.i.p.al thoroughfares leading to the Plaza Bucareli were packed solid with a moving throne all dressed _en fete_.
In no country in the world may one see such great picturesqueness, variety, and brilliancy of color in the costumes of the ma.s.ses as then still prevailed in Mexico. Largely of more or less pure Indian blood, come of a race Cortez found habited in feather tunics and head-dresses brilliant as the plumage of parrots, great lovers of flowers, three and a half centuries of contact with civilization had not served to deprive them of any of their fondness for bright colors. Thus with the hors.e.m.e.n in the graceful _traje de chorro_--sombreros and tight fitting soft leather jackets and trousers loaded with gold or silver ornaments, the footmen swaggering in _serapes_ of every color of the rainbow, the women wrapped in more delicately tinted rebosas and crowned with flowers, the winding streets looked like strips of flower garden ambulant.
Bucareli seated twenty thousand, and when all standing-room had been filled and the gates closed, thousands of late comers were shut out.
The level, sanded ring, the theatre of action, was surrounded by a six-foot solid-planked barrier. Behind and above the barrier rose the benches of the auditorium, the ”bleachers” of the populace; they rose to a height of perhaps forty or fifty feet, while above the uppermost line of benches were the private boxes of the _elite_. Within the ring were five heavily planked nooks of refuge, set close to the barrier, behind which a hard pressed _toreador_ might find safety from a charging bull.
These refuges were little used, however, except by the underlings, the _capadores_, or by capsized _picadores_; _espadas_ and _banderilleros_ disdained them. On the west of the ring was the box of the _Presidente_ of the _corrida _(in this instance, the Governor of the Federal District); on the east the main gate of the ring through which the _cuadrilla_ entered; on the north the gate of the bull pen.
At a bugle call from the _Presidente's_ box, the main gate swung wide and the _cuadrilla_ entered, a band of lithe, slender, clean-shaven men, in slippers, white stockings, knee breeches, and jackets of silk ornamented with silver, each wearing the little queue and black rosette attached thereto that from time immemorial Andalusian _toreadores_ have sported.
_El Tigre_ headed the squad, followed by two junior _matadores_, three _banderilleros_, three _capadores_, and two mounted _picadores_, while at the rear of the column came two teams of little, half-wild, prancing, dancing Spanish mules, one team black, the other white, each composed of three mules harnessed abreast as for a chariot race, but dragging behind them nothing but a heavy double tree, to which the dead of the day's fight might be attached and dragged out of the arena.
Each of the footmen was wrapped in a large black cloak pa.s.sed over the left shoulder and beneath the right, the loose end of the cloak draped gracefully over the left shoulder, the right arm swinging free. The _picadores_ were mounted (as usual) on old crowbaits of horses, mere bags of skin and bones, so poor and thin that neither could even raise a trot; a broad leather blindfold fastened to their head-stalls. Each rider was seated in a saddle high of cantle and ancient of form as those Knights Templar jousted in. The breast of each horse was guarded by a great side of sole leather falling nearly to the knees, while the right leg of each rider was incased in such a stiff and heavy leather leg-guard as to render him afoot almost helpless; and he was further guarded by still another side of sole leather swung from the saddle horn and covering his left leg and much of his horse's barrel. On the right stirrup of each _picador_ rested the b.u.t.t of his lance, a stout eight-foot shaft tipped with a sharp steel prod, barely long enough to catch and hold in the bull's hide.
As the _cuadrilla_ entered, a regimental band played _El Hymno Nacional_, the National Anthem, while the vast audience roared and shrieked a welcome to the gladiators.
Marching to the time of the music in long tragic strides, heads proudly erect, right arms swinging and shoulders slightly swaying in the challenging swagger which _toreadores affect_, the _cuadrilla_ crossed the arena and halted, close to the barrier, in front of the _Presidente's_ box, bared their heads, gracefully saluted the _Presidente_, and received the key to the bull pen and his permission to begin the fight. And as _El Tigre's_ eyes fell from the salute to the _Presidente_ they rested upon Sofia, doubtless from some subtle telepathic message, for it was a veritable hill of faces he confronted.
There she sat on the second bench-row above the top of the barrier, matured and fuller of figure but radiant as at their Utreran parting; there she sat, her gloved hands tightly clenched, her lips trembling, her great blue eyes pouring into his messages of a love so deep and pure that it needed all his self-command to keep from leaping the barrier and falling at his feet.
For a moment he stood transfixed, staggered, almost overcome with surprise and delight again to see her, thrilled with the joy of her message, blazing with revolt at the painful consciousness that she was and must remain another's. His emotions well-nigh stopped the beating of his heart. And so he stood gazing into Sofia's eyes until, self-possession recovered, he gravely bowed, turned, and waved his men to their posts.
Instantly all was action, swift action. Cloaks were tossed to attendants, each footman received a red cape, the two _picadores_ took position one on either side of the bull pen gate, the band struck up a tune, the gate was opened and a great Utreran bull bounded into the arena, maddened with the pain of a short _banderilla_, with long streaming ribbons, stuck in his neck as he entered, by an attendant perched above the gate.
<script>