The city of the discreet

“Be seated, gentlemen,” said the bandit. He closed the kitchen door, and threw an armful of dried branches upon the fire. “It’s a cold night,” he added.

Don Paco and Quentin sat down, and the latter began to speak:

“This gentleman,” he said, “is Don Paco Sánchez Olmillo, who, as you know, is one of the members of the Revolutionary Junta and Chief of the Patrician Lodge.”

“No, not Chief,” Don Paco interrupted. “The Masons have no chiefs.”

“We won’t discuss the use of words now; the idea is to come to an understanding. This gentleman, and other members of the Junta, have thought that you, comrade, could help them start a movement, and wish to get into touch with you.”

“The fact is,” said Don Paco, who believed that Quentin was compromising him a bit too much, “that I have no power—”

“It’s not a question of legal power, nor of lawyers,” replied Quentin. “With us, one’s word is sufficient.”

“It’s absolute, comrade,” added Pacheco.

“Don Paco, you wished to know if Pacheco could organize the movement, did you not?”

“Yes; that is it essentially.”

“Very well; now you know, Pacheco. Kindly tell us if you can undertake the work, and under what conditions.”

“See here, Quentin,” said the bandit, “you already know my ideas, and that I am more liberal than Riego. I don’t want a thing for helping along the Revolution: no money, nor any kind of a reward; I’m not going to haggle over that. What I do want is, that they will not do me a bad turn. Because those Junta fellows, and I don’t mean this gentleman, are capable of ’most any thing. I’ll go to Cordova and see what people I can count on, and I’ll do all the work there is to do; but under one condition; and that is, that all those gentlemen of the Junta will guarantee that the police will not interfere with me. That is to say, I don’t mind exposing myself to being shot, but I don’t want to get shot in the belt for nothing.”

“I have no authority—” said Don Paco, “nor the attributes....”

“You will have to take that up with the Junta,” said Quentin. “Why don’t you go, comrade?”

“No; I’m not going to Cordova.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m afraid that they have sold me, and it wouldn’t go well with the man who did it.”

“A couple of guards stopped us yonder, and told us that they were waiting for you,” said Quentin.

“Where?”

“Near the Cementerio de la Salud.”

“Well, let ’em squat,” said Pacheco, “but let us get at what we are going to do. Comrade, if you will do me the favour of seeing those Junta fellows and speaking to them, you can tell them exactly what I want. If they accept, tell El Cuervo; he’ll see to it that I receive the answer, and the next day I’ll be in Cordova.”

“Then, there’s nothing more to say.”

The three men rose to their feet.

“Well, let’s be going, Don Paco,” said Quentin.

“Man alive, wouldn’t it be better for us to stay here all night?”

“As you wish.”

“Are there any beds here?”

“I should say not!”

“I sleep in the strawloft,” said Pacheco. “I’ll go with you, if you wish.”

Don Paco hesitated between going over the road again, and passing a bad night, and chose the latter.

“Let us go to the strawloft.”

Pacheco took a lantern, opened the kitchen door, traversed a patio, then another, and mounting a staircase, came to a hole; it was the strawloft.

“Stretch out,” said Pacheco; “tomorrow, day will break, and the one-eyed man will see his asparagus. Good night!”

Quentin removed his boots, and in a little while was fast asleep.

In the morning a loud voice awoke him.

“Muleteers! Day’s dawning!”

Quentin sat up; the sun was pouring through the cracks in the loft; cocks were crowing. Pacheco had gone. Don Paco, seated on the straw, with a coloured handkerchief on his head, was groaning.

“What a night! My God, what a night!” Quentin heard him say.

“What! Didn’t you sleep, Don Paco?”

“Not a minute. But you slept like a log.”

“Well, let’s be going.”

They got up, and picked the straw off their clothes, like feathers from a goose.

They left the farm. It was a superb day. When they drew near the Cementerio de la Salud, they descended to the river, and traversing the Alameda del Corregidor, between the Seminary and the Arabian mill, they came out at the bridge gate.

“This afternoon at the Casino,” said Don Paco, who once within the city was beginning to regain his presence of mind.

“At what time?”

“At dusk.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Now you see what one does for one’s ideas,” said Don Paco in the Casino. “One sacrifices one’s self for the Revolution, and for the Country; one faces the odium of the Moderates for years and years; one exposes one’s self to all the dangers imaginable; and even then they do not count one among the founders. They speak of Olózaga, of Sagasta.... I tell you it is an outrage.”

“Hello, Don Paco,” greeted Quentin. “Are you all rested from your bad night?”

“Yes. Let us interview those men.”

“Whenever you wish.”

“Let us go now.”

“Where do we have to go?”

“To the house of the Count of Doña Mencia. The Junta is meeting there.”

The Count lived in one of the central streets of Cordova. They entered the vestibule and rang. A servant opened the gate and accompanied them to the main floor, to a large hall with a panelled ceiling, and illuminated by two wax candles. On the walls were highly polished portraits, in enormous, heavily carved frames. A young man with a black beard greeted Don Paco and Quentin, and conducted them into an office where eight or ten persons were seated.

These men did not interrupt their conversation at the entrance of the new comers, but went on talking: the Revolution was spreading throughout all Andalusia; the Revolutionary troops were marching on Cordova....

Don Paco heard this news, and then spoke to one of the gentlemen about his conversation with Pacheco. This gentleman came up to Quentin and said:

“Tell Pacheco that he can rest easy as far as I am concerned. I shall do all in my power to keep them from apprehending him.”

“Do you hear what the Count of Doña Mencia says?” Don Paco asked Quentin.

“Yes, but it is not enough,” replied Quentin, who felt profoundly irritated upon hearing that name. “I went to see Pacheco because Don Paco told me that he could be useful to you in organizing the people. Whether or not my friend has power, I do not know; what I do know is this, that Pacheco, in order to come to Cordova, makes the condition that you gentlemen must give your word that he will not be arrested, and that they will play no tricks on him. Now you may find out whether that suits you or not.”

The violent tone employed by Quentin surprised the gentlemen of the Junta; some of them protested, but the Count went over to the protestants and spoke to them in a low voice. They discussed Pacheco’s proposition; some said that such complicity with a bandit was dishonourable; others were merely concerned with whether he would be useful or not. Finally they made up their minds, and one of them came up to Quentin and said:

“You may tell your friend,” and the man emphasized the word, “that he will not be molested in Cordova.”

“Do you all hold yourselves responsible for him?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Good afternoon.”

Quentin inclined his head slightly, left the office, crossed the hall, and went into the street. He made his way to El Cuervo’s tavern, where he told the landlord to let Señor José know that he could come to Cordova with absolute safety.

CHAPTER XXX

PROJECTS

“That’s funny,” said Quentin.

“What shall I do?”

“The first thing you ought to do, is to get that money from the Count.”

“They are going to give it to me this week.”

“Good; then go on buying arms and organizing a following.”

“Right in Cordova?”

“Yes; but without showing yourself in the streets; let every man stay in his house. We must figure out our strength, and wait for the proper opportunity.”

“And then—”

“Then, circumstances will tell us what to do. If it suits us to start a row now, why we’ll start it; if we have to shoot a few guns in the streets tomorrow, why, we’ll shoot them. Nobody knows what may happen. The troops are out there on the bridge, and messages and letters and packages come and go. The idea in the city is to be strong, and to keep hidden.”

“So I must go ahead and recruit?”

“Of course.”

“All right. I’m living outside of the town now, in a hut on the Campo de la Verdad; you see I don’t like to stay in the city.”

“You have done well.”

“The house faces the river, and has a horseshoe over the vestibule. Come and see me tomorrow.”

“At what time?”

“In the afternoon.”

“I’ll be there.”

During the subsequent days, Quentin went every afternoon to Pacheco’s house in the Campo de la Verdad; sat down in a cloth-bottomed rocking-chair; put his feet on the window sill, and smoked his pipe.

He listened to the conversation, and gazed indifferently at the town.

Through his half-closed eyes he saw the half-ruined gate of the bridge; beyond, and above it, rose the grey walls of the Mosque, with their serrated battlements; above these walls hung the dark cupola of the cathedral, and the graceful tower rose glistening in the sun, with the angel on its peak inlayed in the huge sapphire of the sky.

On one side of the bridge, the Alcázar garden displayed its tall, dark cypresses, and its short shrub-like orange trees; then the Roman Wall, grey, spotted with the dusty green of parasite weeds, continued toward the left, and stretched on, cut here and there by cubes of rock, as far as the Cementerio de la Salud.

On the other side, the houses of the Calle de la Ribera formed a semi-circle, following the horseshoe bend of the river, which flowed on as though trying to undermine the town.

These houses, which were reflected in the surface of the river—a serpent of ever changing colour—were small, grey, and crooked. Upon their walls, which were continuously calcined by the sun, grew dark-coloured ivy; between their garden walls blossomed prickly pears with huge intertwined and pulpy leaves; and from their patios and corrals peeped the cup-shaped tops of cypress trees and the branches of silver-leafed fig trees.

Their roofs were grey, dirty, heaped one above the other; with azoteas, look-outs, and little towers; a growth of hedge mustard converted some of them into green meadows.

Beyond these houses the broken line of the roofs of the town was silhouetted against the crystal blue sky. This line was interrupted here and there by a tower, and reached as far as the river, where it ended in a few blue and rose houses near the Martos mill.

Some bell or other was clanging almost continuously. Quentin listened to them sleepily and drowsily, watching the hazy sky, and the river of ever-changing colour.

Pacheco’s house had a room with a window that looked out on the other side: upon a little square where a few tramps peacefully sunned themselves.

Among them was one who interested Quentin. This fellow wore a red kerchief on his head, side-burns that reached the tips of his ears, and a large, ragged sash. He used to sit on a stone bench, and, his face resting in his hand, would study the actions and movements of a cock with flame-coloured plumage.

This observer of the cock was at the same time the pedagogue of the feathered biped, which must have had its serious difficulties, to judge by the reflective attitude which the man struck at times.

Quentin listened to what they said in the meetings that went on about him.

How far away his thoughts were in some instances! From time to time, Pacheco, or one of the conspirators put a question to him which he answered mechanically. His silence was taken for reflection.

Quentin excited the bandit’s self-esteem. He was waiting for the time when they would get the Count’s money so that he could take his share and skip off to Madrid. He did not wish this intention of his to become known, so he gave the bandit to understand that he wanted the money for revolutionary purposes only.

Every day Quentin played at the Casino and lost. He had bad luck. He had become tied up with money-lenders and was signing I. O. U.’s at eighty percent, with the healthy intention of never paying them.

After conferring with all the rowdies that came to see him, Pacheco consulted with Quentin. The bandit had romantic aspirations; at night he read books which narrated the stories of great battles; this stirred him up, and made him believe that he was a man born for a great purpose.

“Do you know what I’ve been thinking?” Pacheco said one afternoon to Quentin.

“What?”

“That if I have my people organized beforehand in order to win the battle of Alcolea, I shall become master of the town.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Quentin told him. “You aren’t strong enough for that.”

“No? You’ll see. I have more followers in the city than you think I have.”

“But you have no arms.”

“Wait until the Count’s money comes—it won’t be long now.”

“Are you going to oppose the troops?”

“The troops will join us.”

“Then what? What are you going to do then?”

“If I win,—proclaim the Republic.”

Quentin looked closely at Pacheco.

“The poor man,” he thought, “he has gone mad with the idea of greatness.”

At this moment El Taco, a corrupt individual who had been made Pacheco’s lieutenant, came in to say that some men were waiting for him below.

“I’ll be back,” said the bandit.

Quentin was left alone.

“That chap is going to do something foolish,” he murmured, “and the worst of it is, he’s going to break up my combination. I mustn’t leave him alone for a minute until I get hold of that money. Suppose he keeps it here, and then they shoot him in the street? Good-bye cash! How does one prove that money belongs to one? I could ask him for a key to this room, but he might get suspicious, and I don’t want him to do that. Let’s have a look at that key.”

Quentin went to the door; the key was small, and the lock new; doubtless Pacheco himself had put it on.

“I’ve got to take an impression of it,” said Quentin to himself.

The next day he presented himself at Pacheco’s house with two pieces of white wax in his pocket. He listened to the discussions and intrigues of the conspirators as usual, stretched out in his armchair. When he noticed that they were about to go, he said to the bandit:

“By the way, comrade, let me have a little paper and ink, I want to do a little writing.”

“All right; here you are. We’re going to El Cuervo’s tavern. We’ll wait for you there.”

Quentin sat down and made a pretence at writing, but noticed that some one had stayed behind. It was El Taco. He went on writing meaningless words, but El Taco still remained in the room. Annoyed and impatient, Quentin got up.

“I’ve forgotten my tobacco,” he said; “is there a shop near here?”

“Yes, right near.”

“I’m going to buy a box.”

“I’ll bring you one.”

“Good.” Quentin produced a peseta and gave it to El Taco. The moment the man had left the room, he kneaded the wax between his fingers until he had softened it, took out the key, and made the impression. He was softening the other piece of wax, in case the first had come out badly, when he heard El Taco’s footsteps skipping up the stairs. Quentin quickly inserted the key in the lock and sat down at the table. He went on pretending to write, thrust the paper in the envelope, and left the house. El Taco locked the door.

“Let’s go to El Cuervo’s tavern,” said Quentin.

They crossed the bridge and entered the tavern.

There they found, seated in a group, Cornejo, now recovered from his beating, Currito Martín, Carrahola, El Rano, two or three unknown men, and a ferocious individual whom they called El Ahorcado (The Hanged Man), because, strange as it may seem, he had been officially hung by an executioner. This man had a terrible history. Years ago, he had been the proprietor of a store near Despeñaperros. One night a man, apparently wealthy, came into the store. El Ahorcado and his wife murdered the traveller to rob him, only to discover that their victim was their own son, who had gone to America in his childhood, and there enriched himself. Condemned to death, El Ahorcado went to the gallows; but the apparatus of the executioner failed to work in the orthodox manner, and he was pardoned. He was sent to Ceuta where he completed his sentence, and then returned to Cordova.

El Ahorcado had the names of those in his district who were affiliated with Pacheco, and he read them by placing one hand on his throat—the only way in which he could emit sounds.

“Now then, let’s have the list,” said Pacheco.

El Ahorcado began to read.

“Argote.”

“He’s a good one: a man with hair on his chest,” commented Currito.

“Matute, El Mochuelo, Pata al Hombro,” continued El Ahorcado, “El Mocarro.”

“He’s got the biggest nose in Cordova,” interrupted Currito, “and has to wipe it on his muffler, because handkerchiefs aren’t big enough.”

Thus the list of names went on, with Currito’s responding commentary.

“El Penducho.”

“Good fellow.”

“Cuco Pavo, El Cimborrio.”

“There’s a man who cleans his face with a used stocking, and dirties the stocking by doing it.”

“Malpicones, Ojancos.”

“He’s a money-lender who loans at a thousand percent.”

“Muñequitas, La Madamita.”

“They’re from Benamejí.”

“They just got out of the Carraca prison,” said El Rano.

“El Poyato.”

“Now we’re coming to the sweepings,” interrupted Currito.

“Don’t you believe it,” replied El Ahorcado, “El Poyato is no frog; and even if the wheat does hit him in the chest when he walks through the fields, he is a very brave man.”

“That’s right,” said Carrahola, defending a small man from a sense of comradeship.

“Boca Muerta,” continued El Ahorcado. “El Zurrio, Cantarote, Once Dedos.”

“That chap has one arm longer than the other, and an extra finger on it,” said Currito.

“Ramos Léchuga.”

“He’s a great big good-for-nothing,” said one.

“And very soft mouthed,” replied another.

“What about women?” asked Pacheco.

“They are put down on this other paper,” answered El Ahorcado. “La Canasta, La Bardesa, La Cachumba....”

“There’s a fine bunch of old aunties for you,” said Currito with a laugh.

“La Cometa, La Saltacharcos, La Chirivicha....”

“That’s very good,” said Pacheco. “Within three days you may come here and get your money.”

Quentin understood by this that the bandit was sure of getting hold of the money by that time. He left the tavern, and inquired at the Lodge for Diagasio’s hardware shop. It was in a street near La Corredera. He called on the long-handed individual, and, taking him into a corner very mysteriously, told him what he wanted.

“I’ll give you the key tomorrow in the Lodge.”

Quentin pressed the hardware merchant’s hand, and went home.

CHAPTER XXXI

NIGHT AND DAY

“Not just now; but they have been for many years. Twenty years working as if it were my own business, and helping them to get rich; they in opulence, and me with thirty dollars a month. And that man, just because he saw me take home a chicken to my sick girl, said to me: ‘I see that you are living like a prince.’ Curse him! Would to God he had sunk in the ocean!”

Palomares had been drinking, and with the excitement of the alcohol, he exposed the very depths of his soul.

“You are terrible,” said Quentin.

“You think I’m a coward! No; I have a wife and three small children ... and I’m already decrepit.... Believe me, we should unite against them, and wish them death. Yes sir! Here’s what I say: the coachman should overturn his master’s carriage, the labourer should burn the crops, the shepherd should drive his flock over a precipice, the clerk should rob his employer—even the wet nurses should poison their milk.”

“You’re all twisted, Palomares.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I thought you were a sheep, and you are almost, almost a wolf.”

“Why, there are some days when I would like to set fire to the whole town. Then I’d stay outside with a gun and shoot anybody who tried to escape.”

“The tortoise will get there,” remarked Quentin.

He said good-bye to Palomares, and went home. As he opened the door and stepped into the entryway, he heard some one weeping sadly. Attracted by the wails, he went through the corridor, crossed a patio, and asked in a loud voice:

“What’s the matter?”

A door opened, and a weeping woman with disheveled hair came out with a lamp in her hand. In a voice choked with sobs, she told Quentin that her two-year-old son had died, that her husband was not in town, and that she had no money with which to buy a casket.

“Would you like to see the boy, Señorito?”

Quentin entered a small whitewashed room; the boy’s body lay on a mattress across the table.

“How much do you need to bury him?” asked Quentin.

“A couple of dollars.”

“I’ll see if I have them. If not, we’ll pawn something from my house.”

Quentin went back through the patio followed by the woman; and the two climbed up to the main floor. Quentin lit the lamp, and went through all the drawers. He found four dollars in María Lucena’s bureau, and gave them to the woman. This done, he closed the door and got into bed.... The voices of María Lucena and her mother awakened him.

“There were four dollars here,” cried the actress. “Who took them?”

“I took them,” said Quentin calmly.

“Eh?”

“Yes. One of our neighbours was crying because her baby boy had died and she could not buy him a casket; so I gave them to her. I’ll return them to you tomorrow.”

“That’s it. That’s fine,” said the actress. “Give that woman the money I earn.”

“Am I not telling you that I will return them to you?”

“Little that woman cares for her baby,” screamed María.

“She’s probably buying drinks with the money by this time,” added her mother.

“Señoras,” said Quentin, sitting up in bed, “I find you absolutely repulsive.”

“You are the one who is repulsive,” screeched the old woman.

“Very well; the thing to do now is to get out of this den of harpies; they are beginning to smell.”

“Well, son; get out, and never come back,” cried María.

Quentin dressed rapidly, and put on his boots and his hat.

“Well; give me the key.”

“I give the key to no one,” rejoined the actress.

“See here, don’t you exhaust my patience, or I’ll give you a thumping.”

When the old woman heard this, thrusting her face close to Quentin’s, she began to insult him, shaking her hands in his face.

“Rowdy!” she said, “you’re an indecent rowdy. A fandango-dancing rowdy!”

“Hush, ancient Canidia,” said Quentin, pushing the old woman away from him, “and get you gone to your laboratory.”

“Don’t you call my mother names; do you hear?”

“Nobody can call me names.”

“Well: will you give me the key or won’t you?” asked Quentin.

“No.”

Quentin went to the balcony window and opened it wide. He jumped to the other side of the railing, hung by his wrists, felt for the grated window of the floor below, and dropped to the sidewalk.

“Until—never!” he called from the street.

He had blood on his cheek from one of the old woman’s scratches. He washed at a fountain, dried himself on his handkerchief, and went to the Casino. He went through a door on the right, and entered a large salon which was lined with enormous mirrors.

A sleepy waiter approached him.

“Do you wish something, Don Quentin?” he asked.

“Yes; put out that light as if there were no one here.”

“Are you going to stay here?”

“Yes.”

“But that is not allowed.”

“Bah! What’s the difference?”

The lights were put out, and, after a little, Quentin fell asleep on the divan.

Two waiters in coarse, white aprons awoke Quentin. One was placing the chairs upon the tables, and the other was cleaning the divans with a mop and brush.

“Have you been asleep, Señorito?” said one of them with a laugh.

“Yes; what time is it?”

“Very early. Do you know that there is a great hub-bub in the streets?”

“What is happening?”

“Pacheco has entered Cordova with a gang of toughs, and they are all running through these God-forsaken streets yelling and rioting.”

Quentin jumped up. There was a bucket of water on the floor.

“Is it clean?” he asked the waiters.

“Yes.”

Quentin kneeled on the floor and ducked himself twice. The waiters laughed, thinking that it was all from the effects of a convivial evening.

“Now my head is clear,” said Quentin.

“I’ll bring you a towel,” announced one of the boys. Quentin dried himself, and went into the street.

He walked rapidly toward Las Tendillas, where he found great excitement, and heard all sorts of comments and gossip. He asked a man where Pacheco was.

“He’s near the Plaza de la Trinidad now.”

Quentin ran on, opening a path through the crowd with his elbows.

“The man is an idiot,” he thought. “Could he have imagined that he was really going to head the Revolution?”

After a hard struggle, Quentin could see two horsemen riding at the head of the rabble. One of them was Pacheco; the other was his brother.

“Long live Liberty! Long live the Revolution!” shouted the bandit, waving his arm.

The crowd echoed his cry with enthusiasm, and added:

“Long live the second Prim! Long live General Pacheco!”

“Why, the man is crazy,” murmured Quentin. “I wonder if he’s got the money yet?” Then he thought—“Suppose he has it with him? He’s fixed me if he has.”

Quentin continued to advance, digging right and left with his elbows, in order to get near enough to speak with Pacheco. Suddenly he heard the sound of a shot, and immediately after, almost instantaneously, another; a bit of smoke came from one of the screened windows of the Trinidad barracks.

The crowd drew back, terrified; people began to run pell-mell, and in the alleyways the noise made by the heels of those who fled sounded like a squadron of horses at a gallop. Quentin was forced to take refuge in a doorway in order to keep from being trampled. Several other persons also pushed their way into the same place.

“What happened?” they asked one another.

“They are beginning to shoot, and there’s a great rumpus yonder.”

Another who had just arrived, said:

“They’ve killed Pacheco.”

“Did you see it?” asked Quentin.

“Sí, Señor. I was going by without knowing what was up, when I saw Pacheco fall. His brother jumped from his horse, leaned over the corpse, and said, weeping: ‘He is dead.’”

Quentin went into the street.

“If that fellow had the money in his pocket, there is no way of getting it. I’ll have to explain where it came from.... But if it is still at his house?—Cristo! I mustn’t waste any time.”

He reached the Gran Capitán in a hurry, and took a carriage. “To the Mosque,” he said, “and hurry.” The coachman left him at one of the doors of the cathedral.

“Wait for me,” Quentin instructed him, “I shall be some time.” He jumped from the carriage, went through the church, rushed like a cannon ball through the Patio de los Naranjos, went down by the Triunfo Column, crossed the bridge, and entered Pacheco’s house. He took out the key which Diagasio, the Mason, had made for him, and opened the door.

The bed was untouched; he looked through the little night stand, and found nothing; then he went to the table, took out his penknife and removed the lock from the drawer. Upon some books lay a Russian leather pocketbook, tied with a ribbon. He opened it; there were the bills. He did not count them.

“I am the favourite of Chance,” said he, smiling.

He closed the door, crossed the bridge, and threw the key into the river. The news evidently had not reached that part of the city, for the people were quiet, and there were no gossiping groups. Quentin went up by the Triunfo, again traversed the Patio de los Naranjos, then the church, and got into the carriage.

“To the Gran Capitán,” he said.

By this time the news was spread all over the city; the old wives were shouting it to each other from door to door, and from window to window.

“Where can I leave this money with safety?” Quentin asked himself.

Whomever he trusted would be apt to ask indiscreet questions. His stepfather? Impossible. Palomares, perhaps? But Palomares, in his indignation against the rich, would be likely to keep the money. Señora Patrocinio? She would probably be angry at him. Springer? He was the best.

“I’ll go to his house,” he thought; and he gave the coachman the address of the Swiss watch-maker.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE CITY OF THE DISCREET

“What is it?” asked Quentin, fearing that the low trick he had played on the Count of Doña Mencia had become known in the city.

“María Lucena and I have come to an understanding—I cannot deceive a true friend like you....”

Quentin gazed in astonishment at the Swiss, and seeing him so affected, felt like bursting into laughter; but laughter seemed improper under the circumstances.

“I’m glad you told me,” he said gravely. “I was thinking of leaving Cordova, and now, knowing this, I shall go as soon as possible.”

“And it will not cool your friendship?”

“Not in the least.”

Springer affectionately pressed his friend’s hand.

“Well, will you keep this money for me?”

“Yes; give it to me.”

The Swiss placed the bills in an envelope.

“What must I do with it?”

“I’ll let you know; I shall probably tell you to send it to me in Madrid in various quantities.”

“Good; it shall be done.”

The Swiss climbed the spiral staircase that went from the back room to the main floor, and returned presently, saying:

“I’ve put it away.”

They were chatting together, when Springer’s father entered hurriedly.

“There’s a riot in the town,” he announced from the door.

“Is there? What is going on?”

“They have killed a bandit ... Pacheco, I think they told me his name was.”

“Your friend. Did you know it?” the Swiss asked Quentin.

“No,” he answered calmly. “He must have done something foolish.”

“Let’s ask about it in the streets.”

The father and son and Quentin went out to Las Tendillas. They passed from group to group, listening to the comments, and at one of them where there seemed to be a well-informed gentleman, they stopped.

“How did his death occur?” asked Springer’s father.

“Well, like this. Pacheco entered by the bridge, and crossed the city till he reached the barracks in the Plaza de la Trinidad, where it seems that the General, when he noticed the riot and uproar, and when he heard them shout ‘Long live General Pacheco!’ asked: ‘Who is that fellow they call General? I’m the only General here. ‘It’s Pacheco,’ a lieutenant answered. ‘The people are calling him a General of Liberty.’—‘The bandit?’—‘Sí, Señor.’ Then the General, seeing that the crowd was coming toward the barracks, ordered two soldiers to take their posts with their guns sticking through the cracks in the shutters. When Pacheco came opposite the barracks, he shouted several times: ‘Long live Liberty! Long live the Revolution!’ instantly two shots rang out, and the man fell from his horse, dead.”

All listened to the story, and after it was finished there was a series of remarks.

“That was treachery,” said one.

“A trap they set for him.”

“They’ve wickedly deceived that man.”

“Deceived him? Why?” Springer’s father asked of a man in a blouse who had just made the assertion.

“Because they had promised him a pardon,” replied he of the blouse. “Everybody knows that.”

“But promising a pardon, and entering the city the way he did—like a conqueror—are two very different things,” rejoined the watch-maker.

“This is going to make a big noise,” replied the man.

They returned to the watch-maker’s shop, and as the other stores were closed, the Swiss closed his also.

“Would you like to dine with us?” said Springer to Quentin.

“Indeed I should!”

They climbed the spiral stairs to the floor above, and Springer presented Quentin to his mother; a pleasant woman, thin, smiling, very active and vivacious.

They dined; after dinner, the three men lit their pipes, and Springer’s father spoke enthusiastically of his home town.

“My town is a great place,” he said to Quentin with a smile.

“What is it?”

“Zurich. Ah! If you could see it!...”

“But father, he has seen Paris and London.”

“Oh! That makes no difference. I’ve known many people from Paris and Vienna who were astounded when they saw Zurich.”

Springer’s father and mother, though they had been in Cordova for over thirty years, did not speak Spanish very well.

What a difference there was between that home, and the house where Quentin had lived with María Lucena and her mother! Here there was no talk of marquises, or counts, or actors, or toreadors, or ponies; their only subjects of conversation were work, improvements in industry, art, and music.

“So you are leaving us?” asked Springer’s father.

“Yes. This place is dead,” replied Quentin.

“No, no—not that,” replied the younger Springer. “It isn’t dead; Cordova is merely asleep. All the kings have punished it. Its natural, its own civilization has been suppressed, and they have endeavoured to substitute another for it. And even to think that a town can go on living prosperously with ideas contrary to its own, and under laws contrary to its customs and instincts, is an outrage.”

“My dear lad,” rejoined Quentin rather cynically, “I don’t care about the cause for it all. What I know is that one cannot live here.”

“That is the truth,” asserted the older Springer. “One can attempt nothing new here, because it will turn out badly. No one does his part in throwing off this inertia. No one works.”

“Don’t say that, father.”

“What your father says, is right,” continued Quentin “and not only is that true, but the activity of the few who do work, annoys and often offends those who do nothing. For instance: I, who have done nothing so far but live like a rowdy, have friends and even admirers. If I had devoted myself to work, everybody would look upon me as a good-for-nothing, and from time to time, secretly, they would place a stone in my way for me to stumble over.”

“No, it would not be a stone,” said Springer, “it would be a grain of sand.”

“Still more outrageous,” rejoined Quentin.

“No,” added his friend, “because it would not be done with malice. These people, like nearly all Spaniards, are living an archaic life. Every one here is surrounded by an enormous cloud of difficulties. The people are all dead, and their brains are not working. Spain is a body suffering from anchylosis of the joints; the slightest movement causes great pain; consequently, in order to progress, she will have to proceed slowly,—not by leaps.”

“But among all this rabble of lawyers and soldiers and priests and pawn-brokers, do you believe there is one person who is the least bit sane?” asked Quentin.

“I think not,” the father broke in. “There are no elements of progress here; there are no men who are pushing on, as there are in my country.”

“I think there are,” replied his son; “but those who are, and they stand alone, end by not seeing the reality of things, and even turn pernicious. It is as if in our shop here, we found the wheel of a tower clock among the wheels of pocket watches. It would be no good at all to us; it would not be able to fit in with any other wheel. Take the Marquis of Adarve, who was a good and intelligent man; well, now he passes for a half-wit, and he is, partly—because as a reaction against the others, he reached the other extreme. He carries an automatic umbrella, a mechanical cigar-case, and a lot of other rare trifles. The people call him a madman.”

“All you have to be here,” said the older Springer, “is either a farmer or a money-lender.”

“The vocations in which you don’t have to work,” Quentin asserted. “The Spaniard’s ideal is: to work like a Moor, and to earn money like a Jew. That is also my ideal,” he said for his own benefit.

“As we were saying before,” added the younger Springer; “it is an archaic life, directed by romantic, hidalguesque ideas....”

“Ah, no!” replied Quentin. “You are absolutely wrong there. There is none of your romance, nor of your hidalgos; it is prose, pure prose. There is more romance in the head of one Englishman, than in the heads of ten Spaniards, especially if those Spaniards are Andalusians. They are very discreet, friend Springer; we are very discreet, if you like that better. A great deal of eloquence, a lot of enthusiastic and impetuous talk, a great deal of flourish; a superficial aspect of ingenuous and candid confusion; but back of it all, a sure, straight line. Men and women;—most discreet. Believe me! There is exaltation without, and coldness within.”

It was time to work, and the two Springers went down to their shop.

“Do you see?” said the Swiss to Quentin, as he sat in his chair and fastened his lens to his eye, “perhaps you are right in what you say, but I like to think otherwise. I am romantic, and like to imagine that I am living among hidalgos and fine ladies.... There you have me—a poor Swiss plebeian. And I am so accustomed to it, that when I go away from Cordova, I immediately feel homesick for my shop, my books, and the little concerts my mother and I have in which we play Beethoven and Mozart.”

Quentin gazed at Springer as at a strange and absurd being, and began to walk up and down the store. Suddenly he paused before his friend.

“Listen,” he said. “Do you think that I could deceive you, give you disloyal advice through interest or evil passion?”

“No; what do you mean by that?”

“Don’t compromise yourself with María Lucena.”

“Why?”

“Because she is a perverse woman.”

“That’s because you hate her.”

“No; I know her because I have lived with her without the slightest feeling of affection; and even so she was more selfish and cold than I was. She is a woman who thinks she has a heart because she has sex. She weeps, laughs, appears to be good, seems ingenuous: sex. Like some lascivious and cruel animal, in her heart she hates the male. If you approach her candidly, she will destroy your life, she will alienate you from your father and mother, she will play with you most cruelly.”

“Do you really believe that?” asked the Swiss.

“Yes, it is the truth, the pure truth. Now,” Quentin added, “if you are like a stone in a ravine, that can only fall, you will fall; but if you can defend yourself, do so. And now—farewell!”

“Farewell, Quentin; I shall think over what you have told me.”

Quentin put up at one of the inns on the Paseo del Gran Capitán. He intended to leave the city as soon as he possibly could.

Accordingly, that night after supper, he left the house and walked toward the station; but as he crossed the Victoria, he noticed that four persons were following him. He returned quickly, as he did not care to enter any lonesome spots when followed by that gang, and took refuge in the inn.

Who could be following him? Perhaps it was Pacheco’s brother. Perhaps one of his creditors. He must be on his guard. His room at the inn happened to be in an admirably strategic situation. It was on the lower floor, and had a grated window that looked out upon the Paseo.

The next day Quentin was able to prove that Pacheco’s friends were constantly watching the inn. Their number was frequently augmented by the money-lenders who came to ask for Quentin.

In the daytime, he did not mind going into the street, but when night fell, he locked his room, and placed a wardrobe against the door. Quentin was afraid that his last adventure might result fatally for him.

“I’ve got to get out of here. There are no two ways about it; and I’ve got to get out quietly.”

One day after the battle of Alcolea, Quentin was being followed and spied upon by Pacheco’s men, when as he passed the City Hall, Diagasio the hardware dealer, who was standing in the doorway, said:

“Don Paco is upstairs.”

Quentin climbed the stairs, slipped through an open door, and beheld the terrible Don Paco surrounded by several friends, up to his old tricks.

The revolutionist had ordered the head porter to take down a portrait of Isabella II, painted by Madrazo, which occupied the centre of one wall. After heaping improprieties and insults upon the portrayed lady, much to the astonishment and stupefaction of the poor porter, Don Paco had a ferocious idea; an idea worthy of a drinker of blood.

He produced a penknife from his vest pocket, and handing it to the porter and pointing to the portrait, said:

“Cut off her head.”

“I?” stammered the porter.

“Yes.”

The poor man trembled at the idea of committing such a profanation.

“But, for God’s sake, Don Paco! I have children!”

“Cut off her head,” repeated the bold revolutionist contumaciously.

“See here, Don Paco, they say that this portrait is very well painted.”

“Impossible,” replied Don Paco, with a gesture worthy of Saint-Just. “It was executed by a servile artist.”

Then the porter, moaning and groaning, buried the penknife in the canvas, and split it with a trembling hand.

At that moment several persons entered the hall, among them Paul Springer.

“Are you playing surgeon, Don Paco?” asked the Swiss with a mocking smile.

“Sí, Señor; one must strike kings in the head.”

After cutting the canvas, the porter took the piece in his hand, and hesitatingly asked Don Paco:

“Now what will I do with it?”

“Take that head,” roared Don Paco in a harsh voice, “to the President of the Revolutionary Junta.”

Quentin looked at the Swiss and saw him smile ironically.

“How do you like this execution in effigy of yonder chubby Marie Antoinette?”

“Magnificent.”

“Just as I said. We are the City of the Discreet.”

The two friends bid each other good-bye with a laugh, and Quentin went home.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE DEPARTURE