THE FALSE FRANCISCOBy William A. Branan
By William A. Branan
Jones felt bad about it. Demurely distant, she sat in the patio of her father’scasa, black of eye and red of lip, the most interesting sight he had seen south of the Rio Grande; and not a decent word could he say to her in her own language.
For Jones had never been in Mexico before—nor did his course at Columbia embrace the study of Spanish. Had his knowledge of baseball, football and highballs been a source of honor, no doubt he would have graduated at the head of his class; but to his everlasting shame be it said, he was sadly deficient in the languages. So he gave vent to a few remarks of some warmth—in English, of course, confident that the littleseñoritawould not detect the quality of his foreign expressions.
Now, Jones was not in Chihuahua for his health, either in the strict or common usage of the word; in fact, his shoulders were rather broad for his height, and the healthy color of his cheek carried no sign of affliction. And as for the other use of the word, Jones had departed from his home in the States with ease and without undue haste—nor had a description of his person been wired to the Mexican officials on his departure.
But Jones was a tourist in the truest sense. He had nowhere in particular to go, and he took his time to get there. In less than three days after his arrival in Chihuahua he was worse than apeonabout the sunny side of the house; in less than a week he had caught the spirit ofmañanaand could lie like a native when the occasion required;in truth, he was an idler in an idle land.
After a few days in Chihuahua Jones had secured apartments at a Mexican hotel of the smaller sort, the better to get in touch with the language and customs of the people as soon as possible. His landlord was one of the wiry, working class of Mexicans, with a genial smile that never called for less thanun peso; but it was the landlord’s dark-eyed daughter who caught the eye of Jones.
Now, she was seated on one of the long, low benches in the patio of her father’s hotel, her head slightly shaded by the flowers and foliage behind her, while the sun streamed in spots and showed the clear color of her face and hands. Jones thought he had never seen anything quite so charming as the play of sunshine and shadow—and the pretty head with its black lace mantilla. But how was he to express emotion? or admiration? or anything? Certainly not in Spanish—if so, it must of necessity be a brief and painful expression.
Still, Jones was of a sturdy New England stock that had despised difficulties as far back as the Mayflower, and was not to be deterred by the lack of a common medium. He cleared his throat, shuffled his feet so as to attract attention to his maneuver and crossed the patio to where she was seated.
“Do youhablaEnglish,señorita?” he began, bravely enough.
“No, señor,” she said, with a demure droop of the eyes and a little smile.
“The deuce you don’t!” he started to ejaculate, but wisely refrained, aware that its appropriate application would hardly appeal to her. Instead, he began again: “Ahem!—perhaps—er—I mighthabloSpanish, then:no sabe muchomyself,” he added, as if with a sudden inspiration.
But the maid merely tapped the stone floor with a small slipper to the distant music of a band in the plaza around the corner, and made no effort to help him in his dilemma, though she sent him a smile of reassurance when he flushed and made a move to withdraw.
And then a glorious idea occurred to Jones. There was Francisco, the remarkably radiant Francisco, all smiles because of his connection with thecasa! Francisco was not only chief cook, but enjoyed the distinction of serving his own dishes in the dining room—and washing them afterwards.
Jones remembered with satisfaction the smattering of choice English, with a French flavor, that Francisco was wont to perpetrate on the guests of the house. Francisco’s English was bad enough, thought Jones, but not quite as bad as it might have been—especially in those lucid intervals when he was anxious to see if theAmericano’spurse-string pulledcon mucho gusto. Certainly Francisco should be given a chance; he should act as interpreter; he should tell theseñoritawhat he (Jones) thought of her, and perchance he (Jones) might find out what she thought of him.
“Eet ees that theseñorweeshes that I make the speech for heem?” Francisco inquired, with a polite shrug of the shoulders, when Jones explained to him the emergency of the situation.
“That’s just it,” Jones answered; “you see, neither of us understands the other, and—well, I rather like her looks, you know, Francisco.Sabe?”
“Si, señor,” and Francisco cleared away the remainder of a highly seasoned supper—then the two left the dining-room together. There were no longer any sunbeams to bring out the beauty of the flowers in the patio; but the landlord’s daughter was still sitting there in the twilight.
“Señorita—” Francisco paused with eloquent eyes, then turned to Jones for further instructions.
“Tell her,” said Jones, in a hoarse whisper, “tell her that she’s the most exquisite—no, no, don’t tell her that—tell her that she will catch cold out here in the patio,” he stammered.
“Señor, theseñoritawill run far eef you espeak like that,” Francisco remarked, with a deprecatory gesture of his brown hands.
“Well, tell her that I am delighted to see her looking so well,” was the next effort of the persistent Jones.
“But yes—that ees more well.” Then Francisco turned to the daughter of the house, indicated Jones with a curve of his thumb and spoke rapidly in Spanish. It might as well have been Dutch for all the good Jones got out of Francisco’s enthusiastic expressions. But theseñoritasmiled sweetly enough, and gave a glance from under her long lashes that was worth a world of trouble to Jones.
“A-ha!—we’re coming on, eh—Francisco? Now, tell the young lady that I—that she looks like a lovely little—er—rosebud.”
Again Francisco jabbered eloquently, eyes, hands and tongue making his meaning clear, apparently, for theseñoritashyly drooped her head and replied coyly.
“Tell her,” prompted Jones, devouring the star-like face, set in its frame of jetty ringlets, “tell her I am going to walk around the plaza. Ask her if she is going.”
“She says she cannot to go this night,” was the translation he received. “She ees painful.”
“Well—er—tell her—er—”
“That you go to dream of her, you theenk of her alone only?” suggested the accommodating Francisco.
“Yes, and—er—tell her that I—that we—will talk again. Tell her that—will you, Francisco?”
After Francisco had conveyed this expression in its proper form, with all the courtesy of the occasion, the two retired—Francisco to thecocina, where the dishes were waiting to be washed, Jones to promenade in the plaza and swing his cane to the music of La Paloma. Visions of further conversations with the distracting beauty flitted before him as he strolled under the orange trees—visions wherein the useful Francisco figured not at all; wherein he saw himself holding a little rose-leaf hand and uttering sweet nothings which needed neither bad Spanish nor broken English for their interpretation.
Jones was shocked, to say the least; and for a moment he could hardly catch his breath, much less command the attention of the lovers. There they were, two of them—in fact, it usually takes two to complete such a scene. The young Romeo was leaning against the bars of her casement window, his face upturned to hers; their hands were clasped through the grating, their heads were close together, and every now and then Jones thought he saw—
It was an ideal scene—to the participants—re-acted there in the moonlight from some Shakespearean play, till Jones rang down the curtain with a laugh of ominous portent. For one of the lovers was Francisco and the other—well, the other was the landlord’s daughter.
“Hello, there, Francisco, you rascal—what are you doing there?” Jones demanded. It was eleven o’clock and Jones had just returned from the plaza.
Francisco turned quickly, dropped the little hand held in his own, said something of sinister sound in Spanish which could hardly be translated into English, then—“Eet ees you, ees eet,señor?—so surpreesed am I! I—I was—how the Engleesh?—hold hands weeth theseñorita, ees eet not?”
“It is,” commented Jones, rather emphatically: “but I would like to know what right you—you—”
“You see,” interrupted Francisco, cheerfully conscious that explanations were in order, “theseñoritahave made the promeese to marry weeth me. We have eengaged—ees eet not?—to marree us if thepapaof theseñoritawills.”
“Ah, I see!” and Jones gave a low whistle of dawning discernment. Then a sarcastic smile spread over his face.
“But may I be so bold as to inquire, Francisco,” he resumed, “what part you played in that interesting conversation of ours this evening? Why didn’t you tell me you were engaged to her?”
“Eet was thees way,señor. Eetwas the leetle trick of mine to see theseñoritaand say the speech for myself. When you say to me to tell theseñoritathat you are delighted to see her look so well, I say the Americano ees deelighted to see you look so well,señorita—and Francisco lofe you!”
“Well, I’ll be hanged! You infernal—” but Jones checked himself.
“And when theseñorsay to tell theseñoritathat he will be glad to say the speech some other time, I tell theseñoritathat Francisco will be glad to meet her to-night at her weendow on the Calle Aldama. For I love theseñorita—ees eet not so,queridita?”
For answer a small hand found its way through the bars of the window to the false Francisco, and Jones heard a low laugh of love and music.