The Velvet Glove

by Henry Seton Merriman

  CHAPTER XII

  IN A STRONG CITYAmedeo, as the world knows, landed at Carthagena to be met by the newsthat Prim was dead. The man who had summoned him hither to assume thecrown, he who alone in all Spain had the power and the will to maintainorder in the riven kingdom, had himself been summoned to appear before ahigher throne. "There will be no republic in Spain while I live," Primhad often said. And Prim was dead.

  "Every dog has his day," a deputy sneeringly observed to the Marshallhimself a few hours before he was shot, in response to Prim'splain-spoken intention of striking with a heavy hand all those who shouldmanifest opposition to the Duke of Aosta.

  So Amedeo of Spain rode into his capital one snowy day in January, 1871,carrying high his head and looking down with courageous, intelligent eyesupon the faces of the people who refused to cheer him, as upon a sea ofhidden rocks through which he must needs steer his hazardous way withouta pilot.

  Before receiving the living he visited the dead man who may be assumed tohave been honest in his intention, as he undoubtedly proved himself to bebrave in action; the best man that Spain produced in her time of trouble.

  Among the first to bow before the King were the two Sarrions, and as theyreturned into an anteroom they came face to face with Evasio Mon, waitinghis turn there.

  "Ah!" said Sarrion, who did not seem to see the hand that Mon had halfextended, "I did not know that you were a courtier."

  "I am not," replied Mon; "but I am here to see whether I am too old tolearn."

  He turned towards Marcos with his pleasant smile, but did not attempt theextended hand here.

  "I shall take a lesson from Marcos," he said.

  Marcos made no reply, but passed on. And Mon, turning on his heel, lookedafter him with a sudden misgiving, like one who hears the sound of adistant drum.

  "Judging from the persons in his immediate vicinity, our friend has moneyin his pocket," said Sarrion, as they descended those palace stairs whichhad streamed with blood a few years earlier.

  "Or promises in his mouth. Was that General Pacheco who turned away as wecame?"

  "Yes," answered Sarrion. "Why do you ask?"

  "I have heard that he is to receive a command in the army of the North."

  Sarrion made a grimace, uncomplimentary to that very smart soldierGeneral Pacheco, and at the foot of the stairs he stopped to speak to afriend. He spoke in French and named the man by his baptismal name; forthis was a Frenchman, named Deulin, a person of mystery, supposed to bein the diplomatic service in some indefinite position. With him was anEnglishman, who greeted Marcos as a friend.

  "What do you make of all this?" asked Sarrion, addressing himself to theEnglishman, who, however, rather cleverly passed the question on to theolder man with a slow, British gesture.

  "I make of it--that they only want a little money to make Don Carlosking," said Deulin.

  "What is Evasio Mon doing in Madrid?" asked Sarrion.

  "Raising the money, or spending it," replied the Frenchman, with a shrugof the shoulders, as if it were no business of his.

  They passed up-stairs together, but had not gone far when Marcos said theEnglishman's name without raising his voice.

  "Cartoner."

  He turned, and Marcos ran up three steps to meet him.

  "Who is the prelate with the face of a fox-terrier?" he asked.

  "He represents the Vatican. Is he with Mon?"

  Marcos nodded an affirmative, and, turning, descended the stairs.

  "I had better get back to Pampeluna," he said to his father.

  The train for the Northern frontier leaves Madrid in the evening, and atthis time no man knew who might be the next to take a ticket for France.The Sarrions made their preparations to depart the same evening, and,arriving early, secured a compartment to themselves. Marcos, however, didnot take his seat, but stood on the platform looking towards the gatethrough which the passengers must come.

  "Are you looking for some one?" asked Sarrion.

  "General Pacheco," was the reply; and then, after a pause, "Here hecomes. He is attended by three aides-de-camp and a squadron of orderlies.He carries his head very high."

  "But his feet are on the ground," commented Sarrion, who was rollinghimself a cigarette. "Shall we invite him to come with us?"

  "Yes."

  General Pacheco was one of those soldiers of the fifties who owed theirsuccess to a handsome face. He wore a huge moustache, curling to hiseyes, and had the air of an invincible conqueror--of hearts. He haddined. He was going to take up his new command in the North. He walked,as the French say, on air, and he certainly swaggered in his gait on thatthin base. He was hardly surprised to see the Count Sarrion, one of theexclusives who had never accepted Queen Isabella's new militaryaristocracy, with his hat in one hand and the other extended towards him,on the platform awaiting his arrival.

  "You will travel with us," said Sarrion. And the General accepted,looking round to see that his attendants were duly impressed.

  "I find," he said, seating himself and accepting a cigarette fromSarrion, "that each new success in life brings me new friends."

  "Making it necessary to abandon the old ones," suggested Sarrion.

  "No, no," laughed the General, with a cackle, and a patronising handupheld against the mere thought. "One only adds to the number as one goeson; just as one adds to a little purse against the change of fortune,eh?"

  And he looked from one to the other still, brown face with a cunningtwinkle. Sarrion was a man of the world. He knew that this expansivenesswould not last. It would probably give way to melancholy or somnolence inthe course of half an hour. These things are a matter of the digestion.And many vows of friendship are made by perfectly sober persons who havedined, with a sincerity which passes off next morning. The milk of humankindness should be allowed to stand overnight in order to prove itsquality.

  "Ah," said Sarrion, "you speak from a happy experience."

  "No, no," protested the other, gravely. "It is a small thing--a merebagatelle in the French Rentes--but one sees one's opportunities, onesees one's opportunities."

  He made a gesture with the two fingers that held his cigarette, whichseemed to be a warning to the Sarrions not to make any mistake as to theshrewdness of him who spoke to them.

  "Speak for yourself," said Sarrion, with a laugh.

  "I do," insisted the other, leaning forward. "I speak essentially formyself. One does not mind admitting it to a man like yourself. All theworld knows that you are a Carlist at heart."

  "Does it?"

  "Yes--and you must take comfort. I think you are on the right road now."

  "I hope we are."

  "I am sure of it. Money. That is the only way. To go to the right peoplewith money in both hands."

  He sat back and looked at the Sarrions with his little, cunning eyestwinkling beneath his gold laced cap. The expansiveness would not lastmuch longer. Sarrion's dark glance was diagnosing the man with a deadlyskill.

  "The thing," he said slowly, "is to strike while the iron is hot."

  He spoke in the symbolic way of a people much given to proverbial wisdomand the dark uses of allegory. He might have meant much or nothing. As ithappened, the Count de Sarrion meant nothing; for he knew nothing.

  "That is what I say. Give me a couple of months, I want no more."

  "No?" said Sarrion, looking at him with much admiration. "Is that so?"

  "Two months--and the sum of money I named."

  "Ah! In two months," reflected Sarrion. "Rome, you know, was not built ina day."

  The General gave his cackling laugh.

  "Aha! " he cried, "I see that you know all about it. You gave me mycue--the word Rome, eh? To see how much I know!"

  And the great soldier-statesman leant back in his seat again, wellpleased with himself.

  "I understand," he said, "that it amounts to this; the sanction of theVatican is required to the remittance of the usual novitiate in the caseof a young person who is in a great hurry to take the ve
il; once that isobtained the money is set at liberty and all goes merrily. There isenough to--well, let us say--to convince my whole army corps, and myhumble self. And the Vatican will, of course, consent. I fancy that ishow it stands."

  He tapped his pocket as if the golden "pieces de conviction" werealready there, and closed his eye like any common person; like, forinstance, his own father, who was an Andalusian innkeeper.

  "I fancy that is how it is," said Sarrion, turning gravely to Marcos. "Isit not so?"

  "That is how it is," replied Marcos.

  The effect of the good dinner was already wearing off. The train hadstarted, and General Pacheco found himself disinclined for furtherconversation. He begged leave to ease some of the tighter straps andhooks of his smart tunic, opening the collar of solid gold lace thatencircled his thick neck. In a few minutes he was asleep beneath thespeculative eye of Marcos, who sat in the far corner of the carriage.

  The General was going to Saragossa, so they parted from him in the cold,early morning at Castejon, where an icy wind swept over the plain, andthe snow lay thick on the ground.

  "It will be cold at Pampeluna!" muttered the General from within the hoodof his military cloak. "I pity you! yes, good-bye; close the door."

  The station was full of soldiers, and their high peaked caps were atevery window of the trains. It was barely yet daylight when the Sarrionsalighted at the fortified station in the plain below Pampeluna.

  The city stands upon a hill which falls steeply on the northeast side tothe bed of the river Arga, a green-coloured stream deep enough to giveadditional strength to the walls which tower above like a cliff.Pampeluna is rightly reckoned to be the strongest city in Europe. It isapproached from the southwest by a table-land, across which run the highroads from Madrid and the French frontier.

  The station lies in the plain across which the railway meanders like astream. Both bridges across the Arga are commanded, as is the railwaystation, by the guns of the city. Every approach is covered by artillery.

  The sun was rising as the Sarrions' carriage slowly climbed the inclineand clanked across the double drawbridges into the city. In the Plaza dela Constitucion, the centre of the town, troops of hopeful dogs followedeach other from dust heap to dust heap, but seemed to find little ofsucculence, whilst what they did find appeared to bring on a sudden andviolent indisposition. Perro gazed at them sadly from the carriage windowremembering perhaps his own dust heap days.

  The Sarrions had no house in Pampeluna. Unlike the majority of theNavarrese nobles they lived in their country house which was only twentymiles away. They made use of the hotel in the corner of the Plaza de laConstitucion when business or war happened to call them to Pampeluna.

  They went there now and took their morning coffee.

  "Two months," said Sarrion, warming himself at the stove in their simplyfurnished sitting-room. "Two months, they have given that scoundrelPacheco to make his preparations."

  "Yes--"

  "So that Juanita must make her choice at once."

  "They go to vespers in the Cathedral," said Marcos. "It is dusk by thattime. They cross the Calle de la Dormitaleria and go through the twopatios into the cloisters and enter the Cathedral by the cloister door.If Juanita could forget something and go back for it, I could see her fora few minutes in the cloisters which are always deserted in winter."

  "Yes," said Sarrion, "but how?"

  "Sor Teresa must do it," said Marcos. "You must see her. They cannotprevent you from seeing your own sister."

  "But will she do it?"

  "Yes," answered Marcos without any hesitation at all.

  "I shall try to see Juanita also," said Sarrion, throwing his cloak roundhis shoulders twice so that its bright lining was seen at the back,hanging from the left shoulder. "You stay here."

  He went out into the cold air. Pampeluna lies fourteen hundred feet abovethe sea-level, and is subject to great falls of snow in its brief winterseason.

  Sarrion walked to the Calle de la Dormitaleria, a little street runningparallel with the city walls, eastward from the Cathedral gates. Therehe learnt that Sor Teresa was out. The lay-sister feared that he couldnot see Juanita de Mogente. She was in class: it was against the rules.Sarrion insisted. The lay-sister went to make inquiries. It was not inher province. But she knew the rules. She did not return and in herplace came Father Muro, the spiritual adviser of the school; Juanita'sown confessor. He was a stout man whose face would have been pleasanthad it followed the lines that Nature had laid down. But there wassomething amiss with Father Muro--the usual lack of naturalness in thosewho lead a life that is against Nature.

  Father Muro was afraid that Sarrion could not see Juanita. It was notwithin his province, but he knew that it was against the rules. Then heremembered that he had seen a letter addressed to the Count de Sarrion.It was lying on the table at the refectory door, where letters intendedfor the post were usually placed. It was doubtless from Juanita. He wouldfetch it.

  Sarrion took the letter and read it, with a pleasant smile on his face,while Father Muro watched him with those eyes that seemed to wantsomething they could not have.

  "Yes," said the Count at length, "it is from Juanita de Mogente."

  He folded the paper and placed it in his pocket.

  "Did you know the contents of this letter, my father?" he asked.

  "No, my son. Why should I?"

  "Why, indeed?"

  And Sarrion passed out, while Father Muro held the door open ratherobsequiously.