The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

Shade of Erebus! what did I see? She was black – a negress! Not black as ebony, but nearly so; with thick lips, high cheek-bones, and a row of short “kinky” curls dangling over the arch of her glistening forehead!

My astonishment, though perhaps of a more agreeable kind, was not greater than that of the dragoon lieutenant – who, by the way, was also a full-blooded “Southerner.” At sight of his partner’s face he started, as if a six-pound shot had winded him; and after a few half-muttered excuses, he rose with an air of extreme gaucherie, and hurrying off, hid himself behind the crowd!

The “coloured lady,” mortified – as I presumed she must be – hastily readjusted her mask, and rising from her seat, glided away from the scene of her humiliation.

I gazed after her with a mingled feeling of curiosity and pity; I saw her pass out of the door alone, evidently with the intention of leaving the ball.

I fancied she had departed, as her domino, conspicuous by its bright yellow colour, was no more seen among the maskers.

Chapter Thirteen.

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?”