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; he gazed, without seeming to see them, on the
multitude assembled to breathe the coolness of the evening. This man was
the Marquis Don Vegal, knight of Alcantara, of Malta, and of Charles
III. He had a right to appear in this pompous equipage; the viceroy and
the archbishop could alone take precedence of him; but this great
nobleman came here from ennui and not from ostentation; his thoughts
were not depicted on his countenance, they were concentrated beneath his
bent brow; he received no impression from exterior objects, on which he
bestowed not a look, and heard not the envious reflections of the
mestizoes, when his four horses made their way through the crowd.

"I hate that man," said Andre Certa.

"You will not hate him long."

"I know it! All these nobles are displaying the last splendors of their
luxury; I can tell where their silver and their family jewels go."

"You have not your entree with the Jew S