CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
ON THE AZOTEA.
In the city of Mexico the houses are flat-roofed, the roof bearing thename of _azotea_. A parapetted wall, some three or four feet in height,runs all round to separate those of the adjacent houses from one anotherwhen they chance to be on the same level, and also prevent falling off.Privacy, besides, has to do with this protective screen; the azoteabeing a place of almost daily resort, if the weather be fine, and afavourite lounging place, where visitors are frequently received. Thispeculiarity in dwelling-house architecture has an oriental origin, andis still common among the Moors, as all round the Mediterranean.Strange enough, the Conquistadors found something very similar in theNew World--conspicuously among the Mexicans--where the Aztecan houseswere flat or terrace-topped. Examples yet exist in Northern and NewMexico, in the towns of the Pecos Zunis, and Moquis. It is but natural,therefore, that the people who now call themselves Mexicans should havefollowed a pattern thus furnished them by their ancestry in bothhemispheres.
Climate has much to do with this sort of roof, as regards itsdurability; no sharp frosts or heavy snows being there to affect it.Besides, in no country in the world is out-door life more enjoyable thanin Mexico, the rainy months excepted; and in them the evenings are dry.Still another cause contributes to make the roof of a Mexican house apleasant place of resort. Sea-coal and its smoke are things thereunknown; indeed chimneys, if not altogether absent, are few and farbetween; such as there are being inconspicuous. In the _siempre-verano_(eternal spring) of Anahuac there is no call for them; a wood fire hereand there kindled in some sitting-room being a luxury of a special kind,indulged in only by the very delicate or very rich. In the kitchens,charcoal is the commodity employed, and as this yields no visible sign,the outside atmosphere is preserved pure and cloudless as that whichoverhung the Hesperides.
A well-appointed azotea is provided with pots containing shrubs andevergreen plants; some even having small trees, as the orange, lime,camellia, ferns, and palms; while here and there one is conspicuous by a_mirador_ (belvedere) arising high above the parapet to afford a betterview of the surrounding country.
It would be difficult to find landscape more lovely, or moreinteresting, than that which surrounds the city of Mexico. Look in whatdirection one will, the eye is furnished with a feast. Plains, verdantand varied in tint, from the light green of the _milpas_ (young maize),to the more sombre _maguey_ plants, which, in large plantations(magueyals), occupy a considerable portion of the surface; fields of_chili_ pepper and frijoles (kidney beans); here and there wide sheetsof water between, glistening silver-like under the sun; bounding all aperiphery of mountains, more than one of their summits white withnever-melting snow--the grandest mountains, too, since they are theCordilleras of the Sierra Madre or main Andean chain, which here partedby some Plutonic caprice, in its embrace the beautiful valley of Mexico,elevated more than seven thousand feet above the level of the sea.
Surveying it from any roof in the city itself, the scene is one todelight the eye and gladden the heart. And yet on the azotea of acertain house, or rather in the _mirador_ above it, stood a young lady,who looked over it without delight in her eye or gladness in her heart.Instead, the impression upon her countenance told of thoughts that,besides being sad, dwelt not on the landscape or its beauties.
Luisa Valverde it was, thinking of another land, beautiful too, whereshe had passed several years in exile; the last of them marked by an erathe sweetest and happiest of her life. For it was there she firstloved; Florence Kearney being he who had won her heart. And the belovedone--where was he now? She knew not; did not even know whether he stilllived. He had parted from her without giving any clue, though it gavepain to her--ignorant of the exigencies which had ruled his suddendeparture from New Orleans. He had told her, however, of his becomingcaptain of the volunteer band; which, as she soon after became aware,had proceeded direct to Texas. Furthermore, she had heard all about theissue of the ill-fated expedition; of the gallant struggle made by themen composing it, with the havoc caused in their ranks; of the survivorsbeing brought on to the city of Mexico, and the cruel treatment they hadbeen submitted to on the march; of their daring attempt to escape fromthe Guards, its successful issue for a time, till their sufferings amongthe mountains compelled them to a second surrender--in short, everythingthat had happened to that brave band of which her lover was one of theleaders.
She had been in Mexico throughout all this; for shortly after thedeparture of the volunteers for Orleans, her father had received thepardon we have spoken of. And there she had been watching the MierExpedition through every step of its progress, eagerly collecting everyscrap of information relating to it published in the Mexican papers;with anxious heart, straining her ears over the lists of killed andwounded. And when at length the account came of the shootings at ElSalado, apprehensively as ever scanned she that death-roll of nightwenty names--the _decimated_; not breathing freely until she hadreached the last, and saw that no more among these was his she feared tofind.
So far her researches were, in a sense, satisfactory. Still, she wasnot satisfied. Neither to read or hear word of him--that seemedstrange; was so in her way of thinking. Such a hero as he, how couldhis name be hidden? Gallant deeds were done by the Tejanos, theirMexican enemies admitted it. Surely in these Don Florencio had takenpart, and borne himself bravely? Yes, she was sure of that. But whyhad he not been mentioned? And where was he now?
The last question was that which most frequently occupied her mind,constantly recurring. She could think of but one answer to it; thissaddening enough. He might never have reached the Rio Grande, butperished on the way. Perhaps his life had come to an inglorious thoughnot ignominious end--by disease, accident, or other fatality--and hisbody might now be lying in some lonely spot of the prairies, where hismarching comrades had hastily buried it.
More than once had Luisa Valverde given way to such a train ofreflection during the months after her return to Mexico. They hadbrought pallor to her cheeks and melancholy into her heart. So much,that not all the honours to which her father had been restored--not allthe compliments paid to herself, nor the Court gaieties in which she wasexpected to take part--could win her from a gloom that seemed likely tobecome settled on her soul.