Chapter XXIV “A Bon Chat, Bon Rat”
Under a Cloud—The Door—Padre Consolacion—A Daughter of Spain—The House in the Lane—An Unexpected Visitor—A Gambit—In the Shadow—The Worm Turns—A Blue Paper—The Simple Way
As he made his way through the throng of people filling the corridors and halls of the palace, Jack could not but observe that the looks he met were rather of suspicion than friendliness. He was known by sight to many of the habitués of the castle. Tio Jorge had never tired of praising his exploits and acclaiming him as a staunch friend of Spain; and yet many now scowled on him, whispered to each other as he passed; one or two even fingered their knives.
Surprised at this change of attitude, he was still more surprised to find it reflected in the bearing of Palafox and Don Basilio and other members of the Junta who were present when he made his report. Palafox listened to him coldly, spoke a few words of the faintest praise, and dismissed him without a sign of real approval or encouragement.
Tio Jorge met him as he was re-entering the town by the Porta Portillo, and Jack felt a sense of relief when he saw that the big peasant’s greeting was cordial as ever. After an exchange of news Tio Jorge, who had scanned his face anxiously, said bluntly:
“I am a plain man, Señor. You will answer me a plain question.”
“Certainly, anything in reason,” said Jack in surprise.
“They’re saying—I could not believe it—but they are all saying that you wish to surrender; at least, that you do not think we can hold out. Now, whatever we may think, we do not talk of these things; it is not good for the people to hear such things. If any man says them, he does not live to say them twice. Tell me plainly, Señor, have you spoken of surrender?”
“My good friend,” said Jack with a smile, “when you yourself hear an Englishman talk of surrender, then you may believe it; till then—”
“Then it is false?” asked Tio Jorge.
“Absolutely.”
“I knew it. And that proves,” added Tio Jorge after a moment, “what I thought from the first: you have an enemy in Saragossa, Señor.”
And then he explained. The despatch brought by Don Miguel Priego had been in several points so different from, so much less discouraging than, that previously brought by Jack, that the Saragossans’ first flush of enthusiasm for the English had soon disappeared. The undoubted retreat of Sir John Moore, and the subsequent departure of his army from the shores of Spain, were twisted to mean a desertion of the Spanish cause. There was at first no personal feeling against Jack, though his country was regarded with bitterness, but it had lately been rumoured, on the authority of Don Miguel’s servant, that he had been overheard, in the Cafe Arcos, expressing a despondent view of the chances of holding the city, and hinting that it would be wise to make terms with the French. Only the energetic and successful work Jack had been doing in the Santa Engracia district, and the strong support of Tio Jorge himself, had given pause to those who wished to treat him as all who counselled surrender were treated—to gibbet him in the Coso.
Jack recognized at once that Don Miguel’s malignity was not to be ignored. The bare suspicion of disloyalty had been sufficient to bring a full tale of victims to the gallows, and the fact that he was an Englishman would not preserve him if the feelings of the populace were once thoroughly roused. Fortunately Tio Jorge was his friend; and Tio Jorge was a host in himself. Jack had seen no more of Miguel or his man since their remarkable apparition on the ramparts. He resolved to keep a good look-out; though, after all, it was wily, underhand machinations rather than open violence he had to fear from them.
He had determined to see Juanita and advise her to remove immediately to a safer part of the city. He therefore took leave of Tio Jorge at the door of the house in the Coso where she was staying. The same old duenna admitted him.
“The Señora is very ill,” she said. “The Señorita receives. There is a visitor with her now.”
“I will wait, then.”
“Not so, Señor. The Señorita gave orders that the Señor was always to be shown up if he called.”
Entering the sala, he saw a tall cloaked figure between him and Juanita.
“Ah!” said Juanita, coming forward eagerly with outstretched hand; “how do you do, Jack? You are just in time to show Don Miguel to the door.”
“With pleasure,” said Jack, returning at once to the door and holding it wide open.
Miguel had faced round, and stood swinging his hat in the middle of the room. A fierce scowl darkened his face as he looked from one to the other. Juanita reseated herself, turned her back on him, and resumed some needle-work for the wounded on which she had been engaged. Jack stood in an attitude of polite expectancy at the door.
“I protest—” began Don Miguel; but Jack cut him short. Speaking in a quiet, even tone, he said:
“You have taken leave, Don Miguel?”
The Spaniard stood for a moment irresolute; then, flinging on his hat, he strode across the room, made no response to Jack’s bow, and disappeared. The moment the door was shut Juanita sprang up, ran towards Jack, and took him by both hands.
“Oh, Jack, Jack,” she said, “you don’t know how glad I am to see you!”
“Has that hound been bullying you?”
“Bullying! He dare not. I am not a child! But listen, amigo mio; he came to ask me to marry him. He did! He had the audacity! You should have seen him—heard him—his nasty oily voice; oh, he seemed to be quite sure that he had only to ask! ‘And you think of marriage at this fearful time!’ I said. And he wanted me to believe that he was thinking only of my safety. When the town falls, he said, I shall want a protector. ‘And you, one of Palafox’s hussars, how can you protect me?’ And then he smiled, and spoke in dark hints of some special power he will have, and I grew angry, and asked whether he meant to turn afrancesado, and then—and then you came, Jack, and I wondered what he would do; and—and he went, and I couldn’t help remembering the time when you and I were so terribly afraid of him, and—oh, Jack, it was magnificent—it was indeed!”
Juanita laughed, and Jack himself smiled at the recollection of Miguel’s undignified exit.
“But, Juanita,” he said, “I came to warn you.”
“Against him?”
“No; against the danger you run in staying here. The French are coming nearer every hour; almost at any moment they may reach the Coso. They are driving their mines steadily towards the centre of the city. You must find a place—I can’t call it a home—elsewhere.”
“But, Jack, that is arranged already. Padre Consolacion is going to take us to a house near the Porta Portillo to-morrow. What do you think?—the padre came to see me only a minute or two after you left the other day.”
“Was that the Padre Consolacion? I saw a benevolent-looking priest enter as I went out.”
“Yes. And, only think, he wanted me to marry Miguel!”
“The padre?”
Juanita nodded.
“Of course I told him it was impossible—quite impossible. He sat down and crossed his white plump hands on his hat and began to talk. Miguel must have won him with his plausible manner. I love the padre, but I couldn’t listen to him; could I, Jack? He asked me why I was so opposed to what he thought was an excellent match, and one that my father had so much desired; and then I told him that it was all lies, lies; my father had never wished anything of the sort. And the poor old dear was puzzled, and kept tapping his thumbs together and looked at me so sorrowfully, and then he was called away to attend to a dying officer. And—Jack, tell me, will this siege ever end? Can we hold out any longer? Are there big armies mustering to relieve us, as they all say?”
She bent forward with clasped hands. Jack hesitated for a moment.
“Juanita,” he said, “I won’t disguise my real belief. I don’t believe in the big armies. Saragossa will fall—unless one of two things happens.”
“And they?”
“Unless General Palafox sends out a large sortie and defeats the French, or unless their ammunition gives out. Neither is probable.”
“Then what will become of us? How long will General Palafox resist? Cannot someone plead with him? Think of the thousands who have died, and the thousands who are dying—the poor women and children in their horrible cellars! Oh, Jack, what a terrible thing war is! Does Napoleon know, can he know, of all the horrors he has brought upon us? Has he any heart at all? Jack, my poor aunt is dying, I fear. I can do nothing. Every morning when I go out to carry food and water to the brave soldiers—”
“You do that, Juanita?”
“Why, yes; every girl in Saragossa does that or something else to help; and every morning I go fearing that I shall never again see Tia Teresa alive. And if she dies, I shall be quite alone in the world. Father gone, José gone— Ah! but I have you, Jack, and the good padre, and if the worst comes you will look after me, won’t you?—take me to England, perhaps—I used to like your mother,—and Napoleon will never conquer England, will he, Jack?”
“Not he,” said Jack with a laugh. He saw that the events of the past few days had wrought her nerves to a high pitch of excitement, and tactfully turned the conversation into a quieter channel. He asked for the name of the house to which she was going on the morrow, assured her that, when the inevitable capitulation came, the French would allow generous terms to such brave defenders, and at length took his leave, promising to visit her whenever he could snatch an opportunity.
“And will you be able to save the old house?” she asked, as he was going out at the door.
“I shall do my best, for the sake of old times, be sure of that.”
“I know you will. Vaya usted con Dios, Jack!”
Before he reached the foot of the stairs, Jack saw, in the dim light of the small hanging lamp, a portly figure ascending. He crossed to the other side and waited to allow the visitor to pass.
“Buenas noches, Señor!” said Padre Consolacion, sweeping off his large shovel hat; then he stopped as he recognized the same youth whom he had seen earlier in the week.
“Padre mio,” cried Juanita from the top, “come along; I want to speak to you.”
“Buenas noches, Padre!” said Jack; and the priest, after a moment’s hesitation, went up slowly.
Hard by the Casa Alvarez a narrow tortuous lane of mean houses, dirty in appearance and evil in repute, ran almost due east from the ramparts. It was not a district in which, before the siege, any person worth robbing would choose to be abroad after nightfall. But when, towards dusk on this fifth of February, a well-dressed man passed rapidly down the street and disappeared into one of the least reputable of the houses, the few denizens who observed him did so without a thought of their knives, almost without a sense of curiosity. To such a height of abnegation had the public danger brought the professional lawbreakers of Saragossa.
It was a house of three stories, and the stranger, threading his way gingerly through the gloomy entrance and up the narrow stairway, gathered from the evidence of all his senses that every story was fully occupied. In hardly another street in this part of Saragossa could a house have been found where its whole population was not herded in cellars below-ground. But here the lane was so narrow, and so closely surrounded by buildings, that the inhabitants were in no danger from the French bombardment, and lived in a security which few of their fellow-citizens enjoyed.
As the visitor passed room after room on his upward way, the sounds of coarse laughter, the oaths of men, the shrill expostulation of women, and the querulous cry of children came to him through closed or half-closed doors, and he drew his cloak around him with an instinctive movement of disgust. Treading almost noiselessly he reached the attic floor, where the doors of three rooms opened on to a narrow landing. Although evidently a stranger to the house he showed little hesitation. With infinite caution he tiptoed across the landing to the farthermost door, and put his eye to a crack in the panel, through which a narrow beam of light fell on the dirt-encrusted wall behind him.
The room into which he looked was in keeping with the rest of the house. The fitful light of a tallow candle showed a man bending over a crazy table, two truckle-beds ranged at right angles to each other in the far corner, and a few articles of clothing hanging from hooks on the wall. The man was intently studying a blue paper spread out on the table, spelling out the words with difficulty, and repeating them under his breath with a growl of impatience that accentuated the unpleasing effect of a countenance by nature unprepossessing.
For some minutes the man beyond the door, drawing shallow breath, watched him closely as he struggled with the intricacies of the document. There was apparently a passage in it that completely baffled him. He turned the paper this way and that, examined it even upside down, but without success, and at last, in a burst of anger, dashed it down on to the table with an audible oath.
The visitor took this as his cue for entry, and tapped gently at the door.
“Adelante!” was the answer, after a distinct pause.
He turned the handle and went in. The man had faced round towards the door, and the dim light of the candle disclosed the narrow features, low receding forehead, thin lips, and shifty eyes of Pablo Quintanar. The blue paper had disappeared.
There was a momentary silence. The host was evidently waiting for his visitor to introduce himself.
“Buenas noches, hombre!” said the stranger suavely, with a conciliatory bow. “I trust I don’t come at an unseasonable hour.”
The guerrillero scanned him from head to foot with a quick suspicious glance.
“That depends, Señor, upon your business, who you are, and what you want with me.”
“As to who I am, hombre—may I take a chair? thank you!—my name is Miguel Priego. As to my business, that is not so simply stated; we must improve our acquaintance first.”
The man started at the mention of his visitor’s name; and the latter duly noted the fact. But as the guerrillero merely stood in an attitude of expectancy, Don Miguel, loosening his cloak and placing his hat on the table, continued:
“I have been, my friend, as you may perhaps have heard, four days in Saragossa. During these four days I have been searching for you.”
The man’s hand went like a flash to his knife, and Miguel, quickening his measured tones, hastened to add:
“No, my friend, not in that way, or, as you can imagine, I should not have come alone. I have been searching for you because I think we are both of one mind regarding, let us say, the policy of our brave commandant General Palafox.”
“Say what you have to say, and have done with it. I don’t understand your fine phrases.”
Don Miguel smiled indulgently. It was clear to him that his host fully grasped his meaning.
“Well, to put the matter quite plainly, you—that is, you and I—regard all this,” waving his hand in the direction of a cannon-shot from the ramparts, “as useless waste of life—sheer obstinacy; a noble enthusiasm, but misguided. Is it not so? Now, acting upon our convictions we—that is, you—have already done our little best to bring this distressing conflict to an end. We—that is, you—have endeavoured—unsuccessfully endeavoured—to relieve our commandant of certain plans which, if placed in proper hands might—I say might—”
At this point the guerrillero, who had been standing facing his visitor, sank into a chair, his face blanched, his mouth twitching. On the blank wall before him his imagination was casting the grim shadow of a gibbet.
Don Miguel smiled faintly, and waved his hand reassuringly.
“There is no need, my friend, for emotion. If we were not of the same mind you might, of course, have some ground for uneasiness; but fortunately we understand one another. Is it not so?”
“Sí, Señor,” the man replied, recovering himself with an effort. “Sí, Señor, we understand one another.”
“That is well. Now we can proceed. You can understand that our good friends out yonder, who also wish to end this terrible siege, are grieved by your ill-success. They are saying hard things about you. They even went the length of giving me your name, which, if I were less discreet, might well have been awkward for you. I don’t disguise that if they capture Saragossa while you are still in their debt—one thousand pesetas, is it not?—they may treat you somewhat harshly. But, fortunately, you have a chance of retrieving yourself.”
Don Miguel paused. His host had now to some extent recovered his composure.
“And what is that?” he asked sullenly.
“I happen to know, hombre, where our noble commandant has placed the papers you failed to find. If you can deliver those papers to me I will see that our friends outside do not forget you.”
The man smiled cunningly.
“Thank you, Señor! If I run the risk it would suit me better to claim the reward myself.”
“As you please, my friend. But remember that without my assistance you can do nothing. A few more days will end the siege, and then—” He smiled, then added reflectively: “They say it is an easy death.”
Pablo Quintanar winced. He felt himself in the toils, and had some difficulty in resisting the impulse to throw himself upon his visitor and end the interview with a knife-thrust. But he felt that Don Miguel, with all his languid urbanity, was fully on his guard, and choking down his animosity he replied:
“What does the Señor wish me to do?”
Don Miguel’s voice throughout the interview had been carefully modulated to defeat any eavesdropping. He now rose quietly, and, rapidly opening the door, peered out on to the landing. There was no one in view. He stretched himself over the balustrade and saw, on the flight below, what appeared to be a tall figure lurking in the shadow. He seemed satisfied. Quietly re-entering the room, he closed the door.
Then began a long colloquy between the two men, Miguel giving precise directions as to the whereabouts of a certain box, and the means whereby it could be secured.
“I think, my friend, there is nothing more to say,” he remarked in conclusion. “The matter now rests with you.”
“One moment, Señor,” said Quintanar, motioning him to be seated. He had listened deferentially to what Miguel had been saying, and had obediently fallen in with every proposition; but there was now a vindictive look in his eyes that caused Miguel a strange uneasiness.
“Certainly,” he replied, “but I have little time to spare.”
“I will not detain you long—not longer, Señor, than you wish, though I think that when you have heard what I have to say, you may not be in such a hurry. The point is this. If—mind, I say ’if’—I knew the whereabouts of a letter in which your name is mentioned in connection with a little affair on the Barcelona road—you remember?—a couple of years ago?—if, I say, I had such a letter, that is, if I knew where such a letter was to be found, would it be worth anything to you, Don Miguel?”
Pablo Quintanar grinned maliciously. He had been the victim for the past half-hour; it was now his turn. Miguel had done his best to dissemble his start of surprise and anxiety; but the man’s searching gaze was upon him, and though he replied with a show of confidence he felt that it was not convincing.
“My name has no doubt been mentioned in a good many letters, my friend; but I am quite indifferent whether I am well or ill spoken of. Hard words break no bones.”
“That may be, Señor, but they sometimes break reputations, and you are dancing on a thin rope. But if I tell you that this letter also has a message about a sum of money hidden by the writer, how does that alter the case?”
“I can tell you better if you inform me what the message is, and what the name of the writer is.”
“Well, I can tell you the name of the writer; it is the late Señor Alvarez.”
“Ah! I heard that a letter had been lost—that, then, was what you found instead of the plan. Do you know, my friend, that this places you in a very awkward position? You will do well to hand the letter over to me. The slightest whisper of suspicion—”
The man glared viciously at the speaker, then snapped out:
“You may be quite sure that as you are the only man who knows anything about it, I shall take care that you swing on the same gallows.”
Don Miguel shifted his feet uneasily.
“You need not fear, my friend; I am not the man to betray you. I merely thought it would be safer for you if this letter were in my possession.”
“Oh, no doubt! but, Señor,” added Quintanar with a harsh laugh, “I couldn’t allow you to take the risk—especially as the letter is of no value to you. I need not detain you, Señor.”
Miguel considered a moment, tapping the floor lightly with his foot.
“What do you want for the paper?”
“Well, Señor, I am not unreasonable. Let us say one thousand pesetas down and a quarter of the treasure when you find it.”
Miguel laughed softly.
“Thank you, my friend! Before I pay a thousand pesetas I should like to know what I am paying it for.”
Quintanar, hesitating for a moment, slowly drew out a blue paper from beneath his jacket, and said:
“What do you think of this?
‘I am convinced that Miguel Priego was at the bottom of this dastardly outrage. Unfortunately, we have no proof at present that would satisfy a judge, but if any of the men who assisted him can be found and induced to give evidence it is still possible that he may be brought to book.’
What do you think of that, Don Miguel? Ah! I thought I should interest you.”
Miguel forced a smile, and, waving his hand airily, said:
“If that is all the letter contains I would not offer a maravedi for it.”
“Oh, there is more, a good deal more! I need not read it all, but listen to this:
“The sum saved from Miguel’s brigands, together with a large amount in jewels and bullion, I have thought it best to secrete until more settled times. You will find appended to this letter instructions which, taken together with a communication I have made to your son Jack, will enable you or him, or such other person as you may be so good as to depute, to find them in the event of anything happening to my servant José Pinzon, who is fully acquainted with all my dispositions.”
Don Miguel, greed written in every lineament, leaned forward on his chair, listening eagerly.
“Well,” he said impatiently, as the man concluded, “what are the instructions?”
“Those, Señor, I cannot read. They are in some strange tongue; but no doubt you, having education, will be able to make them out. That is to say, if you make it worth my while to hand you the letter. You know my price.”
Carefully refolding the letter, Quintanar replaced it in a pocket inside his jacket. In doing so he took his eyes for a moment off Miguel, whom he had been watching with the utmost vigilance, to assure himself that the document was safely stowed away.
The other, his face aflame with rage and cupidity, instantly seized the opportunity. Drawing his feet quietly beneath him, he sprang from his chair and bore the guerrillero to the ground. But the man, although taken unawares, recovered himself with surprising agility. Before Miguel had time to draw his knife he had clutched him by the throat, and with a dexterous turn had reversed their positions, Miguel now being on the ground, Quintanar above him, his long knife uplifted to strike.