



Produced by Norm Wolcott, Stephen Blundell, American
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THE PEARL OF LIMA.

BY ANNE T. WILBUR.

_Graham's American Monthly Magazine of Literature, Art, and Fashion
(1844-1858)_; Apr 1853; VOL. XLII., No. 4; APS pg. 422




THE PEARL OF LIMA.

A STORY OF TRUE LOVE.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. JULES VERNE.


BY ANNE T. WILBUR.




Transcriber's Note:

    Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.
    Inconsistent hyphenation and spellings have been standardised,
    whilst variant and unique spellings remain as printed. For the
    reader's ease, although not present in the original text, a brief
    table of contents has been included below:

         I. THE PLAZA-MAYOR.
        II. EVENING IN THE STREETS OF LIMA.
       III. THE JEW EVERY WHERE A JEW.
        IV. A SPANISH GRANDEE.
         V. THE HATRED OF THE INDIANS.
        VI. THE BETROTHAL.
       VII. ALL INTERESTS AT STAKE.
      VIII. CONQUERORS AND CONQUERED.
        IX. THE CATARACTS OF THE MADEIRA.




CHAPTER I.

THE PLAZA-MAYOR.


The sun had disappeared behind the snowy peaks of the Cordilleras; but
the beautiful Peruvian sky long retains, through the transparent veil of
night, the reflection of his rays; the atmosphere is impregnated with a
refreshing coolness, which in these burning latitudes affords freedom of
breath; it is the hour in which one can live a European life, and seek
without on the verandas some cooling gentle zephyr; it seems as if a
metallic roof was then interposed between the sun and the earth, which,
retaining the heat and suffering only the light to pass, offers beneath
its shelter a reparative repose.

This much desired hour had at last sounded from the clock of the
cathedral. While the earliest stars were rising above the horizon, the
numerous promenaders were traversing the streets of Lima, wrapped in
their light mantles, and conversing gravely on the most trivial affairs.
There was a great movement of the populace on the Plaza-Mayor, that
forum of the ancient city of kings; artisans were profiting by the
coolness to quit their daily labors; they circulated actively among the
crowd, crying their various merchandise; the ladies of Lima, carefully
enveloped in the mantillas which mask their countenances, with the
exception of the right eye, darted stealthy glances on the surrounding
masses; they undulated through the groups of smokers, like foam at the
will of the waves; other senoras, in ball costume, _coiffed_ only with
their abundant hair or some natural flowers, passed in large caleches,
throwing on the _caballeros_ nonchalant regards.

But these glances were not bestowed indiscriminately upon the young
cavaliers; the thoughts of the noble ladies could rest only on
aristocratic heights. The Indians passed without lifting their eyes upon
them, knowing themselves to be beneath their notice; betraying by no
gesture or word, the bitter envy of their hearts. They contrasted
strongly with the half-breeds, or mestizoes, who, repulsed like the
former, vented their indignation in cries and protestations.

The proud descendants of Pizarro marched with heads high, as in the
times when their ancestors founded the city of kings; their traditional
scorn rested alike on the Indians whom they had conquered, and the
mestizoes, born of their relations with the natives of the New World.
The Indians, on the contrary, were constantly struggling to break their
chains, and cherished alike aversion toward the conquerors of the
ancient empire of the Incas and their haughty and insolent descendants.

But the mestizoes, Spanish in their contempt for the Indians, and Indian
in their hatred which they had vowed against the Spaniards, burned with
both these vivid and impassioned sentiments.

A group of these young people stood near the pretty fountain in the
centre of the Plaza-Mayor. Clad in their _poncho_, a piece of cloth or
cotton in the form of a parallelogram, with an opening in the middle to
give passage to the head, in large pantaloons, striped with a thousand
colors, _coiffed_ with broad-brimmed hats of Guayaquil straw, they were
talking, declaiming, gesticulating.

"You are right, Andre," said a very obsequious young man, whom they
called Milleflores.

This was the friend, the parasite of Andre Certa, a young mestizo of
swarthy complexion, whose thin beard gave a singular appearance to his
countenance.

Andre Certa, the son of a rich merchant killed in the last _emeute_ of
the conspirator Lafuente, had inherited a large fortune; this he freely
scattered among his friends, whose humble salutations he demanded in
exchange for handfuls of gold.

"Of what use are these changes in government, these eternal
_pronunciamentos_ which disturb Peru to gratify private ambition?"
resumed Andre, in a loud voice; "what is it to me whether Gambarra or
Santa Cruz rule, if there is no equality."

"Well said," exclaimed Milleflores, who, under the most republican
government, could never have been the equal of a man of sense.

"How is it," resumed Andre Certa, "that I, the son of a merchant, can
ride only in a caleche drawn by mules? Have not my ships brought wealth
and prosperity to the country? Is not the aristocracy of piasters worth
all the titles of Spain?"

"It is a shame!" resumed the young mestizo. "There is Don Fernand, who
passes in his carriage drawn by two horses! Don Fernand d'Aiquillo! He
has scarcely property enough to feed his coachman and horses, and he
must come to parade himself proudly about the square. And, hold! here is
another! the Marquis Don Vegal!"

A magnificent carriage, drawn by four fine horses, at that moment
entered the Plaza-Mayor; its only occupant was a man of proud mien,
mingled with sadness;