Chapter XVIII At the Opera House
Now that I was on foot I saw with much concern what a condition of tumult and confusion prevailed in the capital. The streets were thronged with people talking, gesticulating, shouting; some standing in groups, others loitering casually, and others again rushing hither and thither distractedly. The whole city everywhere appeared to have gone almost wild with excitement. Every street corner had its own clamorous group—men, women, and children mingled together, all manifesting the same symptoms of turbulent unrest.
The police were everywhere. Bodies of troops, mounted and on foot, patrolled the main thoroughfares and by-streets alike; and ever and again I met small parties of police or troops, or both mixed, hurrying along with one or two men or women in their midst. The sight of these seemed to goad the populace almost to frenzy; and they broke into hoots, groans, and indescribable cries, mingled with hisses, oaths, and loud vehement execrations.
I had no need to ask the cause of this, for the key was on everyone’s tongue, and the cry was everywhere “Death to the Carlists!” Wherever I turned, the air rang with it: in the quavering tone of old age, in the shrill screech of violent women, in the strident cry of strong, angry men, even in the puny squeal of children held up by their mothers to clench their tiny fists and squeak a curse after the Carlist captives as they were hustled by to gaol.
The tale ran with its usual exaggerations. “The young King had been killed, and the Queen Mother—the Holy Virgin preserve her—lay dying from the wounds received in trying to save her son.” “No; the King was not dead, only desperately wounded, lying at death’s door, shot from a distance by the cowards who had no stomach for an open attack.” “No, no; the King had been stolen and the Queen murdered, and the villains had even dared to enter the Palace itself, and, thanks be to the Holy Saints, had been caught by the guard and clapped into gaol, after having been nearly pulled to pieces by the mob. Blessed be the Virgin, the dear young King was safe.” “All wrong, the King was safe, and had been saved by the great Minister himself, Quesada;” and so on, through the whole gamut of conjecturing ignorance.
All this I caught as I hurried at such speed as I could make to Madame Chansette’s house in search of Sarita. It was nothing to me on what lies the people fed themselves or were fed by Quesada’s agents. I knew that his object was to raise such a popular clamour against the Carlists as would strengthen his hands in the work of stamping them out, and the Spanish temper was already running so high that more than one ugly rush by the mob had been made at some of the batches of prisoners, as if to tear them to pieces. And I trembled as I thought of Sarita in the hands of these furious violence-mongers.
There was some risk for me, too, in going to Madame Chansette’s. I had heard the order given to Rubio to arrest Sarita at once, and if he and his men were before me, I knew I might be arrested. The consideration did not stop my going to the house, but it made me keep a very sharp eye for the police agents.
The house wore its customary appearance, however, and when I knocked I was admitted by the servant, whom I knew by sight. All seemed well so far. I asked for both Madame Chansette and Sarita, and was shown at once to the former. I found her weeping bitterly, prostrated, and really ill with alarm.
“I am so thankful to see you. You have heard this awful news. Oh, what shall we do, what shall we do?”
“Where is Sarita?” I asked in alarm, thinking the police had been before me. “Is she safe? Quick, for God’s sake tell me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know that she is in danger of arrest. Where is she? Please tell me everything you can. I am on fire with impatience.” But my impetuous excitement so heightened her fear that, to my consternation, she grew suddenly hysterical, and I cursed myself for a blockhead, as I looked round for scent and restoratives and did my best to calm her.
“She must be saved, Ferdinand,” she cried, helplessly, after precious minutes had been wasted. “Oh, the rash, headstrong, wilful child!”
“If you will be calm and tell me where she is, I can save her,” I said, speaking now with forced deliberation and cool firmness. “But you must be calm, and tell me everything.”
“I will tell you. I did not know till to-day that she was actually plotting to get the King stolen away by these fearful Carlists; and now it has been done, and she has gone away somewhere, and I know it is to take some other terrible steps. I can endure no more of it, Ferdinand. I love Sarita; but I will not stay another day in Madrid.”
“Do you know where she has gone?”
“No—yes—I don’t know. All I know is this: She came to me about two hours ago, her eyes shining and her face on fire with enthusiasm—you know how she would look at such a time—and told me what she had been planning, and that it had all succeeded, and that she had to go away for an hour or two, but would be back as soon as she had finished the great work there was to do. I was so frightened, I nearly fainted. I begged her not to go—but you know her;” and Madame Chansette waved her hands and shook her head feebly, the tears still running down her cheeks.
“Do you know where she has gone?” I repeated, driven almost to my wit’s end by the waste of time caused by her weakness.
“I can only make a guess, and I don’t know whether I ought to have done it;” an inconsequential enigma which made me bite my lip with vexation in the effort to restrain my impatience. She glanced up helplessly once or twice while hesitating.
“If you know nothing, I can do nothing,” I said, as gently as I could, to spur her.
“I am almost ashamed of it, but I had better say, perhaps; I don’t know what you will think. When Sarita came to me she had a letter in her hand, and—and before I quite knew what I was doing, I—I had read it.”
“Thank God you did, if it told you what we want to know.”
“It was only a short note,” she said, relieved by my reception of the confession, but still apologetic. Oh, these good, honest, weak, exasperating people! “It said something about all having gone well, and that she was to go at once to——”
“Where?” I cried, on fire, as she paused again.
“I think it was 47, or 147, or 247—I know 47 was part of it—Calle de Valencia. I am certain about the street, and she may be there. Do you think it was very mean—what’s that?” She broke off with a start, and began to tremble violently, as a loud knocking at the house door and a great pealing of the heavy bell came to our ears.
“For God’s sake be calm for a minute. It is probably the police agents come to arrest Sarita. Listen, please; listen carefully,” I cried, as she again showed signs of hysterics. “I will go at once and warn her and save her. They must not know I have been here, and I can get out through the garden, as I have before. Let them search the house, and keep them here as long as you can, but don’t breathe a word that I have been here, or of Sarita. You can hear of me and of Sarita through Mrs. Curwen, at the Hotel de l’Europe. Fasten the window behind me.”
While speaking, I had opened the window, and, making a great effort, she came and closed it and drew the curtains. I stood a moment in the darkness, my ear pressed to the pane, and heard someone enter the room and ask for Sarita.
“We are the police,” said a strident, high-pitched voice, “and call upon you to help us. She is here, we know, and must come with us. Here is the warrant.”
Whoever he was, he did his work in the coarsest and most brutal fashion; and, waiting to hear no more, I slipped away noiselessly into the darkness. My fear now was lest the place should be surrounded and my own escape impeded.
There was a gate at the bottom opening on to a back road, but I knew of a spot at the side where, with the help of a tree, I could easily scale the wall, and deemed it prudent to avoid the gate. I climbed cautiously, and, looking over, saw the way was clear, and jumped down. But a man had been posted to watch close by, and, catching sight of me, he sent up a cry and began to run in my direction. My knowledge of the locality stood me in good stead, however, and, running at top speed, I doubled through one or two back ways and passages, and shook off pursuit sufficiently to be able to walk quietly into one of the crowded main streets, where it would have been hopeless to look for me in the throng.
The excitement in the streets was even greater than before, but now there was a perceptible change of tone. A note of thanksgiving and rejoicing was mingled with the curses and groans and execrations; and I soon gathered that doubts about the young King having been even hurt had begun to spread among the people.
My way took me near the Opera House in the Plaza del Oriente, and then there flashed into my recollection the appointment I had made to see Mercy and Mrs. Curwen in their box. I recalled also the necessity of informing Mercy of the news of poor Lascelles’ death. When I should have another chance I could not tell, and thus I resolved to snatch a minute, urgent though my errand was, and go to them in the box.
I pushed my way through the crowd, which was now alternately cheering with deafening enthusiasm, and turning to shout out curses and oaths against the Carlists, and, entering the Opera House, asked for Box 9, the number Mrs. Curwen had given me. They would not let me pass for a moment, however, and I was taking out my card to send to Mrs. Curwen, when the possible danger of having my name known at such a time struck me, and I scribbled, “Lord Glisfoyle,” on an envelope which I borrowed at the bureau, and sent an attendant in with that. He returned and asked me to follow him, and I walked through the magnificent corridors, half ashamed of what looked like a grim, unnatural jest at such a moment, and thinking how best to break my bad news to Mercy. Little did I foresee, indeed, what a friend to me that simple precaution would prove; but, then, how few of us can see even an inch beyond the nose-tip!
I had nearly reached the box when a roar like thunder burst out suddenly in the great building, which seemed almost to stagger with the sudden shock and vibration; and, as the attendant opened the box door, the huge volume came rushing out with a deafening crash. A wild passion of excitement, uproar, and tumult possessed the vast audience, making such a scene as I had never witnessed.
Men and women alike were beside themselves in the rush and delirium of positively frantic enthusiasm: standing on the seats, and even rushing over them, leaning on one another, pushing, straining, climbing one on top of another’s shoulders to gain a place from which they could catch a sight of one central spot. Even the stage was filled with a heterogeneous crowd of actors and actresses in costume, men and women in evening dress, and scene shifters and employees of all kinds. And the whole congested mass of people were yelling and shouting and cheering as though they would burst their lungs, as they waved anything they could lay hands on—hats, caps, handkerchiefs, shawls, opera cloaks, and on the stage flags, anything and everything that would help them to vent their overwhelming enthusiasm.
The centre of it all was the slight, slim, graceful, figure of the boy King, standing in front of the Royal box, bowing and smiling his acknowledgments; while just behind him, like the guardian angel of his life, was the beautiful Queen Mother, with a light of love, pride, and pleasure on her strong, clever face, as she gazed through eyes bright and shining with rare tears at this marvellous demonstration of a people’s thanksgiving for her and their darling’s safety.
Minutes passed, and the tumult gave no sign of abatement. If the great hoarse volume of shouting seemed for a second to be dying down, it was quickly noticed, and huge waves of swelling sound arose again, until it appeared as if the very roof would be rent by the strain. Suddenly a voice started the national air, and in a moment the leader of the orchestra seized the occasion, the band took it up, and the whole audience, led by the singers on the stage, sang it with such a chorus as had never before been heard in Madrid.
Then came an unrehearsed and most dramatic scene. There was a movement on the stage as the singing drew to a close, and the Archbishop of Madrid came to the front and stood with uplifted hand for silence.
An intense hush, seeming almost weird after the raging tumult, fell upon the place, and then his powerful voice was heard in half a dozen impressive sentences of thanksgiving for the King’s deliverance; and as he finished amid sounds of sobbing from men and women, for all were now so wrought upon that emotion reigned supreme alike over strong men and weak women, a mighty Amen came from every corner of the house, with another moment of weird silence as the great priest stood with bowed head and hand-covered eyes in prayer.
Before the audience could gather strength for fresh shouting he stepped back, the curtain came down on the stage, the band struck up some of the music of the night’s opera, and the great scene—a scene to be remembered to one’s dying day—was over; and the panting, exhausted, half-hysterical audience struggled back into some semblance of order.
I had been as much carried away as anyone—the fever of contagion was in truth resistless—and I had forgotten everything in the excitement, even the time I was losing, so vital for the rescue of Sarita; and my companions in the box were equally oblivious. But at the close of it they turned to me.
“Why, they said it was Lascelles,” said Mercy, who like Mrs. Curwen was sitting back exhausted with the excitement, for they had been shouting and waving as frantically as the rest.
“I used the name to get in,” I replied, feebly: realising how incongruous it would be to attempt to break my news to Mercy in the midst of such a scene. “I didn’t expect to get here, but as I chanced to be near the place, I came in to say I hope to be at supper with you at the Hotel de l’Opera.”
“You’re always coming to say you can’t come, but will come some other time,” exclaimed Mrs. Curwen.
“I am sorry if I seem neglectful,” was my apology,
“You look very serious, at any rate, and as if this mysterious business was a very doleful one.”
“When I am able to explain it all to you, you will say I am not serious without cause.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I have no right to any explanation, but Mercy has,” she answered.
“Don’t mind me, Nand,” said Mercy quickly. “I know it must be serious.”
“I have some news for you, Mercy, but I can’t tell you now. I must go.” I was standing almost in the front of the box, between the two, and Mrs. Curwen said—
“Did you ever see such a scene? What a love that boy King is! I should like to kiss him.”
I glanced then across at the Royal box, and to my discomfiture saw that his little Majesty was taking my advice, and, with an opera glass, was earnestly searching the audience. As I looked across, the glass was full upon our box. He started, lowered the glass, and looked eagerly at me. Then he turned to the Queen impetuously, said something to her, and handed her the glass; and she in her turn looked across the house at me.
He had recognised me, and I dare not stay another minute, for fear he should send to enquire for me. I turned to Mayhew, who was sitting by Mrs. Curwen.
“I want to speak to you, Silas. Come with me;” and, murmuring an excuse to the widow, we went out.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes, there’s a devil of a mess, and I’m in it up to the neck, and I want you to help me. I’ve got a nasty job for you. I’ve had a telegram from London just now to say that my brother is dead. He was thrown from his horse this afternoon. Here’s the wire.”
“Then that name you sent in——” he began.
“I didn’t use it because of that. But my own name has got mixed up with this infernal Carlist business, and I didn’t dare send it in. Ferdinand Carbonnell may be proscribed at any moment, and I’ve scraped my shoulder already once this evening against a prison door. What I want you to do is to break this news of poor Lascelles’ death as best you can to my sister, as soon as you get a chance, and just make them both understand that they’re to know nothing of any Ferdinand Carbonnell. If I’ve been recognised here, as I think I have, and anyone comes questioning, just say I’m Lord Glisfoyle, and if they press for any address give them the Hotel de l’Opera.”
“I don’t quite understand. Why——”
“That’s all right; I can’t spare another second,” and I hurried off, leaving him staring after me with the telegram in his hand, the very picture of bewilderment.
I walked quickly along the corridor, left the building, and turned at a quick speed in the direction of the Calle de Valencia, in search of Sarita. And when I found how much time I had lost through my visit to the Opera, I was troubled with serious misgivings.