# Works of Jules Verne/The Pearl of Lima/Chapter 1

The Pearl of Lima
CHAPTER I
THE "PLAZA MAYOR"
THE sun had just sunk behind the snowy peaks of the Cordilleras, and, although the beautiful Peruvian sky was being covered by the veil of night, the atmosphere was clear and refreshing in its balmy coolness. It was just the hour when a European might enjoy the climate, and with open veranda luxuriate in the grateful breeze. The stars were beginning to appear and the promenaders betook themselves to the streets of Lima, where, protected merely by their light capes, they discussed the most trivial topics with the most profound gravity. The general direction of the throng was toward the grand square, the Plaza Mayor, the forum of the ancient "City of the Kings."
The same cool atmosphere which tempted the population to an evening stroll had the effect of bringing out the various hawkers, who threaded their way amidst the crowds shouting aloud the praises of their different wares. The women, wearing mantles which effectually concealed their faces, glided, as it were, between the groups of smokers. A few ladies there were in evening dress, with their coiffure, composed of their own luxuriant hair, gracefully adorned with natural flowers; but these were lounging back in the wide barouches. The Indians were seen making their sullen way without once lifting their eyes, and indicating neither by gesture nor by word the rancorous envy that was gnawing at their spirit, a contrast altogether with the half-breeds, who, repudiated as themselves, protested more openly against their civil wrongs.
As for the Spaniards, those haughty descendants of Pizarro, they held their heads aloft as though they were still entitled to the homage of the days of old, when their ancestors had founded the city of the kings. They entertained supreme contempt alike for the Indians whom they had conquered, and for the half-breeds who had sprung from their own connection with the people of the New World. Like every other subjugated race, the Indians 109 ​chafed at their condition, and regarded with common antipathy not only the conquerors who had overturned the ancient empire of the Incas, but also the half-breeds, that upstart race, as arrogant as vulgar. With regard to these half-breeds, it may be asserted that they were Spaniards as far as their scorn of the Indians could make them so, while they were thorough Indians in the detestation in which they held the Spaniards. The two sentiments were about equally developed, and united in embittering their lives.
It was a party of the young half-breeds that was now seen clustering near the fine fountain that adorns the center of the Plaza Mayor. Each of them was wearing a "poncho," which consisted simply of an oblong piece of cotton, with an aperture in the middle to admit the head of the wearer, and nearly all of them were arrayed in loose trousers, gay with stripes of a thousand colors; on their heads they had broad-brimmed hats made of straw from Guayaquil. They gesticulated violently as they talked.
"You are right, André," said a little man named Millaflores, speaking in a most obsequious tone.
This Millaflores was a hanger-on, a sort of parasite of André Certa, a young half-breed, and the son of a wealthy merchant who had been killed in one of the late insurrections. Inheriting an ample fortune, André had sought by a lavish prodigality to surround himself with a bevy of friends from whom he exacted nothing more than the most servile deference.
"And what good, I should like to know," said André, raising his voice higher and higher as he spoke, "what good ever comes of these changes of government, and these everlasting pronunciamentos that are constantly agitating Peru. As long as there is no equality established, it matters little whether it be Gambarra or Santa Cruz that rules us."
"Well said! well said, indeed!" shrieked little Millaflores, who, in spite of the passing of a law for universal equality, could never be an equal to any man of spirit.
"Here am I," continued André Certa, "the son of a merchant, and how is it that I am not allowed a carriage drawn by anything better than mules! Whose ships were they but mine that brought prosperity into the land? And isn't an aristocracy of wealth far more than a match for all the empty titles of the grandees of Spain?"
​"Disgraceful!" chimed in the voice of one of the young half-breeds; "utterly disgraceful! Just look there! there goes Don Fernando! see him how he drives along in his chariot drawn by horses! Don Fernando d'Aguillo! he can scarcely afford to buy a dinner for his coachman, and yet look at the air with which he lords it about the Plaza! Look, there's another of them! the Marquis Don Vegal!"
A splendid carriage at that moment turned into the Plaza, and proved in truth to belong to the Marquis Don Vegal, Chevalier of Alcantara, of Malta, and of Charles III. The nobleman had come out only to relieve the tedium of the evening, and with no thought of ostentation or display. As he sat with his head bent in anxious care, he paid no regard to the envious sneers with which the groups of half-breeds greeted him while his carriage and four dashed through the crowd.
"I hate that man," growled André Certa.
"Ah! you will not need to hate him long," replied one of the young men.
"Perhaps not," said André. "These lordlings have seen nearly the last of their luxuries, and have pretty well exhausted all their jewels and family plate."
"Yes, indeed; no one knows that better than yourself, familiar as you are with old Samuel the Jew."
"True; the old Jew's ledger shows plenty of credit and lots of debt, and his strong box is full to the hasp with the débris of the fine fortunes of the old aristocrats. But the day isn't far off, and a jolly day it will be, when these Spaniards will all be beggars, like their own Caesar de Bazan."
"Capital, André," put in Millaflores; "and then you will mount upon your own millions, and double them besides. But when do you marry old Samuel's daughter? Sarah is a true child of Lima, a Peruvian to the very tips of her fingers; nothing of the Jewess about her except her name."
"Oh, within a month," said André. "In another month there will not be a fortune in the land to compete with mine."
"But why," was the inquiry of one of the admiring group, "why don't you marry the daughter of some Spaniard who can boast a noble lineage?"
"Because I despise the race as much as I hate it," replied ​André; but he did not think it necessary to confess that his acquaintanceship had been ignominiously rejected in every aristocratic circle to which he had endeavored to get an introduction.
At this instant André was unceremoniously jostled by a tall man with grisly hair, whose thick-set limbs indicated more than an ordinary amount of physical strength.
The man was an Indian, a native of the mountains; he wore a shirt of the coarsest serge, that, opening at the neck, revealed the shaggiest of bosoms; his short linen trousers were gaudy with green stripes, and his stone-colored stockings were fastened at the knee with crimson garters; a pair of glittering ear-rings hung far below the border of his hat.
After jostling André, the man stood and stared at him.
"You vile Indian!" exclaimed the assaulted half-breed, as he raised his hand to strike him.
His companions held him back, and Millaflores cried, "André, André! mind what you are about!"
"What does the wretched slave mean by daring to jostle me?" exclaimed André furiously.
"Never mind, he's only an idiot; it is Sambo!"
The Indian continued steadily staring at the man whom he had intentionally affronted. André, beside himself with rage, laid his hand upon the dagger which he carried in his belt, and was upon the point of attacking his aggressor, when a shrill cry, like the note of the Peruvian linnet, re-echoed above the tumult of the crowd, and in a moment Sambo had disappeared.
"Miserable coward!" ejaculated the furious André.
Millaflores gently begged him to control his passion, and leave the Plaza. The group of young men began to retire towards the lower end of the promenade.
The Plaza Mayor was still the scene of bustling animation. Night had come on, and gliding about with their identity completely disguised by their mantles, the women of Lima truly deserved their name of the "tapadas,"—the "concealed." The noise and tumult seemed ever to be increasing. The horse-guards, sentineled at the central gateway of the Viceroy's palace, had as much as they could do to retain their places undisturbed by the thronging of the busy crowd. Industry of every sort appeared to have found a general rendezvous, and the whole place was well-nigh ​given tip to the exhibition of articles for sale. The lower story of the palace, and the very basement of the cathedral had been converted into shops, and the entire locality was thus transformed into a vast bazaar for all the varied products of the tropics.
Louder and louder waxed the noise; when all at once the bell from the cathedral tower tolled out the Angelus, and the tumult was completely hushed. The clamor of business was replaced by the whisperings of prayer. The ladies paused upon the promenade, and began to tell their beads.
During the interval of the suspended traffic, and while the mass of the people was still in the attitude of devotion, a young girl, accompanied by an old duenna, was trying to make her way through the thickest of the crowd. Angry remonstrances met the ears of both as their movements interrupted the prayers of those they passed. The girl wanted to stand and wait, but the undaunted duenna dragged her resolutely on. First some one would say, "What are these daughters of the devil doing?" and then another would ask, "Who is this cursed ballet-girl?" till at last, overwhelmed by confusion, the girl refused to advance a step.
At that instant a muleteer was proceeding to take her by the shoulder and force her on to her knees; but he had scarcely raised his hand for the purpose, when he was seized by a strong arm from behind, and felled to the ground. The incident, though it was quick as lightning, caused some confusion for a moment.
"Make your escape, young lady," said a voice, gently and respectfully, close to the girl's ear.
Pale with terror she cast a glance behind her, and saw a tall young Indian standing with folded arms and looking defiantly at the muleteer before him.
"Alas, alas!" cried the duenna, "we have got into trouble," and hurried the girl away.
Bruised by his fall the muleteer rose to his feet, but not deeming it prudent to demand satisfaction from an opponent of such resolute bearing as the young Indian, he retired towards his mules, muttering angry but useless threats as he went.
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