Chapter XX At the Hotel De l’Opera
It is, of course, a very simple thing to laugh at the conventions, and to declare that it would be preposterous to give the least thought to them in the face of the really serious pass to which matters had come. I was trying to do that all the way to Mrs. Curwen’s room as we followed the waiter, to whom I had given my name as Lord Glisfoyle.
But, as a matter of fact, I felt more nervous and uncomfortable at having to subject Sarita to the sharp inquisitive fire of the widow’s eyes, than if I had been going to face a roomful of armed men. My companion saw my embarrassment.
“You are anxious how your sister will receive me?” she whispered with a quick discernment.
“My sister, Mercy, is one of the best, staunchest little souls in the world.”
“Ah, then it is this friend of hers?”
“It will be all right,” I answered evasively; and as the waiter threw the door open and announced me at that moment, there was no time to say any more. Our entrance could scarcely have been at a more inopportune moment. My sister had taken the news of Lascelles’ death very badly, and was lying on a sofa overcome by grief. Mrs. Curwen was kneeling by her with scent and smelling salts, and Mayhew was standing near in the helpless attitude usual with men under such circumstances.
Mrs. Curwen did not get up or look round for a moment, but an exclamation from Mayhew, who recognised Sarita and bowed to her, and then stared at her with an expression of bewilderment, drew the widow’s attention.
“Mercy is,”—she began in a tone of warning but glancing round, then seeing I was not alone, and that my companion was an exceedingly lovely girl, she stopped, jumped up and looked at Sarita with eyes and face that appeared to harden rapidly from surprised confusion to indignant anger. She seemed instinctively to divine enough of the case between Sarita and myself to make her exceedingly uneasy and angry; and she was never in the habit of concealing her feelings.
“I have brought my cousin, Senorita Castelar, who is at this moment in deep trouble, Mrs. Curwen, to ask you and Mercy to help her.” I must admit Sarita did not wear the appearance of trouble to bear out my words. She met Mrs. Curwen’s most sarcastic look with one of almost queenly hostility, held her head high and had a light in her flashing eyes which augured ill for peace.
“Any friend of yours is welcome, of course,”—oh, the sting of that “of course,” and the wicked bow that accompanied it—“but the hour is very late and unfortunately Mercy is prostrated with grief at the terrible news which you left to Mr. Mayhew to tell us. Will you be seated, senorita?” Mayhew glanced across at me, shrugged his shoulders very slightly, and then like, a good fellow plunged in to the rescue.
“Thank God, you are safe, senorita,” he said, coming forward. “You must have had an awful experience in the streets to-night. They are almost impassable for the frantic excitement of the mob. You will not have forgotten me, I hope. I have had the pleasure of meeting you more than once; the last time I think was at the French Embassy ball. No? Well, it must have been at some other, for I know that we danced together. My name is Mayhew. I’m at the British Embassy, you know—at least you would know if my good friend Ferd—Lord Glisfoyle, I mean, hadn’t got his head too high in the clouds just now to tell you who I am.”
His glib chatter was a wonderful relief and broke the exceedingly awkward strain at the moment when everything seemed to spell crisis; and he bustled about and went on chattering in an unconcerned and irrepressible manner, for all the world as though there was no electricity in the air, and the visit at such an hour and under such circumstances was just the most usual thing in the world.
Under cover of this fusillade of small talk I crossed to Mercy’s side and bent over and kissed her.
“Mercy, dear, I am in sore trouble and perplexity. If you can make an effort and rally now and help me, you will do me the greatest favour in the world. Both Sarita Castelar—who is your cousin—and I are in imminent danger of being arrested and sent to gaol, and I want your woman’s wit, and that of our good friend here—to get us out of it. Mrs. Curwen, you have often declared your friendship for me, will you show it now in this?”
I knew my sister well enough to be sure that such an appeal would be the finest tonic in the world, and that it would stir up every scrap of pluck in her to face the emergency. And I was right. She pulled herself together, and kissing me, sat up.
“This awful news about Lascelles——” she began.
“You must put the thought of it away for the present, Mercy, and face the danger here,” I interposed, earnestly. “There is no time for the indulgence of grief.”
Mrs. Curwen had stood in silence during the short by-scene with Mercy, and the catchy breathing, slightly paled cheek, firmly pressed lip, and quick glances flashed from me to Sarita, told me she was moved. She bent forward as Mercy sat up in answer to my appeal, laid a hand on my arm and looked into my face with more earnestness and feeling than I had ever known her display, as she asked—
“What is this girl to you, Ferdinand?” and her eyes searched mine keenly for the truth.
“As I live, she is more to me than life itself,” I answered in a low whisper that trembled with suppressed passion.
At the reply, she drew her hand hastily from my arm, closed her eyes, bit her lip as she drew one deep breath, and clenched her hands in a moment of intense agitation. But in the moment she had herself in hand again, a smile broke the set pallor of her face, she gave me her hand.
“Then, of course, we’ll do all we can. What queer, clumsy creatures you men are sometimes. Why on earth didn’t you tell us before?” and like the plucky little soul she was, the smile quickened into a rallying laugh.
I had no words ready for a reply. I was too much moved; and I held out my hand in silence and pressed hers. Mercy had been scarcely less moved by my news, and getting up now, put her arms round her friend’s waist and kissed her.
“What a fuss you two make about a trifle,” said the widow, shrugging her shoulders. “Come, Mercy, we must do something, instead of chattering here; and let poor Mr. Mayhew off duty. I hope he isn’t as awfully uncomfortable as he looks;” and she and Mercy crossed to Sarita.
“Lord Glisfoyle wants you a minute, Mr. Mayhew,” she said, and then earnestly to Sarita, “My dear, let me call you that, I want to apologise to you, but I didn’t know. Will you forgive me? Lord Glisfoyle is a very dear friend of mine—and you must be too.”
“I didn’t know that I had a cousin in Madrid,” chimed in Mercy, kissing Sarita. “And you in such trouble too.” And at that point Mayhew and I went out of the room on his suggestion, that if we left the three together while we smoked a cigarette, we should find them thick friends by the time we returned.
“This is a ticklish touch-and-go thing, Ferdinand,” he said, as we lighted our cigarettes in the corridor.
“My dear Silas, it’s a devil of a job, and how to get out——”
“I meant Mrs. Curwen,” he said, drily. “You didn’t tell me she’d ever cared for you; and to bring your cousin,”—with a distinct emphasis—“here was a bit risky, wasn’t it? But I must say you have a devil of a way with you. I couldn’t have done it.”
“My dear fellow, Mrs. Curwen is a shrewd, level-headed, clever commonsense little woman, who is not of the type you seem to think. Her liking for me is much more platonic than romantic, and—well, I’m thundering glad it’s all right. But I couldn’t have done anything else if I’d wished to, for I had nowhere else to go. And look here, you behaved like a brick and just saved the situation. And now listen while I tell you something of the mess we’re in.” I told him pretty well everything, except my rescue of the young King, as shortly as I could, and very grave it made him look.
“You’re in deep, sure enough,” he said when I finished. “But there’s a way out, and if I were you I should take it. I suppose that as your brother’s dead you won’t stay on at the Embassy here; well, I should go to the chief, tell him pretty well the whole show and just stop at the Embassy until you can get safely away. Quesada can’t touch you, of course; and even he won’t dare to try any games when he learns through official channels, of course, that the chief knows the facts. But you must give up the fight with him. You can’t beat him. No one can.”
“And Senorita Castelar?”
“I should get that plucky little widow-woman and your sister to smuggle her out of the country. It’s no good blinking things, and there’s no doubt that the Carlists will have a mighty bad time for a while; while those who took an active part in the abduction business have—well, they’ve put their heads in a noose, and that’s the truth. It’s a life and death matter for some of them: and you say she was a sort of leader?”
“Your plan won’t do, Silas. We must get something better. I can’t make up my mind to separate from her.”
“Then you’ll double the danger for you both. Quesada will have a double trail to follow, and he’s a sleuth-hound at the game.”
“I shall not leave her,” I said, firmly. “I couldn’t. I have still something in reserve for Quesada if need be, and I won’t give in. Oh, by the way, did any one come to the box to-night?”
“Yes, of course, they did. I’d forgotten it in this hubbub. It was somebody from the royal box too, for you to go there. What on earth does that mean?”
“I think there was some mistake or other. What message did you send?”
“That you had left the house; and when they asked for your address in Madrid, I gave them this hotel, as you said. Are there any more mysteries about, Ferdinand?”
Mercy came out then in search of us and saved me from replying, and as we were entering the room she kept me back a moment and pressed my arm as she looked up and whispered—
“I like her, Nand, and she is beautiful. And it’s all right now, but we had such trouble. She’s as proud as Lucifer, and we could do nothing with her until Angela—hasn’t she behaved splendidly?—kept declaring that if she didn’t do what we wanted she’d bring you into all kinds of trouble. For herself, I believe she’d go to the stake with a smile on her face. But she loves you, Nand, and that settled things. You’ll see a change in her.”
“You’re a true little chum, Mercy,” I said, kissing her for her news. She was right; there was a change. Sarita was dressed in sober black, with white cuffs and collar, her glorious hair done with quite severe plainness; a costume that seemed a sort of compromise between that of a companion and superior maid. But no change could hide her looks, and the very plainness of her dress enhanced her beauty, at least in my eyes.
“I am the victim of circumstances, and of these two good souls’ solicitude for your safety,” she said to me.
“And what does it all mean?” I asked.
“We start for Paris to-morrow,” replied Mrs. Curwen; “and while you gentlemen have been smoking and talking, I have been fortunate enough to secure the services of a new companion, whose name to the world is Juanita Sanchez. You will remember that. Mr. Mayhew, who can be trusted to see to any business arrangements, will, I know, kindly arrange for me to-morrow to have a special train through to Paris—I am too frightened by these Madrid mobs to remain longer—and will get passports for Mercy and myself and Juanita; and if Lord Glisfoyle joins us, so much the better. And now as I am desperately hungry let us have supper.”
It was a strange feast, and had it not been for Mayhew’s ever ready glibness of speech, it would have been an embarrassing business. But he opened a vein of anecdotal chatter, and Mrs. Curwen being very excited, soon began to keep up her end, so that gradually the feeling of strangeness wore away and we came to the discussion of our plans. There is no need to dwell upon them further, for they were all fated to be suddenly checkmated.
We had finished the supper; and in the lull that followed, Mayhew and I, at Mrs. Curwen’s request, lighted cigarettes, and Mercy and Sarita having risen from the table, stood talking together at the far end of the room when a waiter came in, and approaching Mrs. Curwen, said in a very apologetic tone—
“I am sorry to disturb you, madam, but someone desires to see you—in point of fact, a police agent.” As he spoke, we heard the sound of men moving in the corridor and a whispered word of command; and the next moment the police agent was in the room.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Mrs. Curwen, indignantly, in English, and the official, not understanding her words but replying to her gestures, bowed and shrugged his shoulders.
“Permit me to interpret,” said Mayhew, readily, and he put the question in Spanish; and meanwhile the man’s eyes were all over the room, settling finally on me.
“My instructions are to come here—the rooms of Senora Curwen, Hotel de l’Opera—” this he read from his instructions—“in search of the Carlist, Ferdinand Carbonnell.”
Mayhew made a show of interpreting this to Mrs. Curwen, and jumbled in a half-coherent caution that he knew the man understood English, so that we must look out.
“Tell him he has made a mistake; and you,” she said to the waiter, “go and fetch the manager of the Hotel. I will not stand this kind of treatment.”
“In the presence of the police we are powerless, madam,” replied the waiter. “The manager is away, I am acting in his place.”
Meanwhile Mercy had turned so pale that I was afraid the official would notice it. Then Mayhew answered—
“You are under a grave mistake. This lady is an English visitor to Madrid, has been here only two or three days, knows nothing of any Carlists, and desires you to leave her rooms.”
“There is no mistake. That is Ferdinand Carbonnell; or at least he answers to the description well enough for me, and he must accompany me,” and he came and stood by my chair.
“I don’t know what you’re driving at,” I said, thinking it time to take a hand on my own account. “If you want me to go anywhere with you, I’ve no particular objection. But you’ll find yourself in a mess if you carry this blunder, or fooling, or whatever it is, any further.”
“You speak excellent Spanish, senor. May I ask your name?”
“Is that a crime?” I asked with a sneer, while Mayhew laughed unconstrainedly and most naturally. “If you want to know who I am—I’m an Englishman, Lord Glisfoyle; and if you want anyone to prove it, we’ll go and knock up the English Ambassador, and ask him what he thinks of this kind of outrage. I say it’s monstrous.”
“Lord Glisfoyle,” he returned, stumbling over the pronunciation. He was obviously impressed by my coolness and the little touch of indignation. He took out a paper and scanned it closely. “You answer in every particular to Ferdinand Carbonnell’s description. These are anxious times, senor, and I have only my duty to do,” he added apologetically.
“I can’t help that,” said I, quietly. “If you want to arrest me because I speak Spanish well and look like somebody else, you must have a queer set of laws here in Madrid. Had we better knock the Ambassador up, for the enlightenment of the gentleman?” I asked Mayhew.
“Nonsense,” he said, with another laugh. “The thing’s absurd. Here, you probably know me—or some of your men will. My name is Silas Mayhew, of the British Embassy. I tell you, this is Lord Glisfoyle. Don’t get yourself into trouble and cause no end of complications by carrying this thing any further.”
“May I ask the names of all present?” was the reply, for he was by no means satisfied yet.
“Of course you may. I’ve told you this is Mrs. Curwen,” said Mayhew, coolly. “That is Lord Glisfoyle’s sister, and that Mrs. Curwen’s companion—maid, Juanita Sanchez.” He did it excellently, as though the matter were the merest form. The official was puzzled, and stood pulling his beard in indecision. But he scarcely glanced at the two girls, vastly to my relief. If Sarita was safe, I cared little about myself.
“Excuse me a moment,” he said, and going to the door he spoke to one of his men who came back to the room with him.
“You are Ferdinand Carbonnell, we are sure,” he said then, and to my consternation he was holding a photograph in his hand. I remembered then that Quesada had obtained one from me.
“There is no room for doubt,” and he showed it to Mayhew.
I saw Sarita start at this, while Mercy had to cling hold to her and be helped to a chair.
“I’ll go with you, of course,” I said. “But I shall hold you responsible for this. My sister is not well, and your clumsy blunder has made her positively ill. It’s all right, Mercy,” I said, going over to them, and taking occasion to whisper to Sarita, “I shall be perfectly safe if you’ll only get away. They can do nothing to me, and by to-morrow they’ll have a broadside from the Embassy that’ll make them shake in their shoes. But promise to leave Madrid with Mrs. Curwen.”
“Should I run away and leave you in danger?” she said.
“I can’t stop to argue, but if you care for me and my safety, you’ll do what I ask. I’m ready,” I said aloud. “Just let me see your documents.”
He showed me an order signed by Quesada himself, the alleged offence being high treason; and I read it aloud in order that Sarita should hear it, and I was shaking hands with Mrs. Curwen preparatory to leaving when there came another interruption.
Two officers in very elaborate uniforms were ushered in by a waiter, with every sign of extreme deference. They were complete strangers to me, and my heart leapt into my mouth in fear that it boded mischief to Sarita.
“Pray pardon me, madam,” said one of them in English to Mrs. Curwen. “I hope we are not intruding; but we come on a mission of the highest importance. I was told Lord Glisfoyle was your guest, and I see”—this with a most courteous bow to me—“I was not misinformed.”
“I am Lord Glisfoyle, but I do not recall the pleasure of having seen you before.”
“That is my loss, sir,” and he bowed again. “I know you, however, by sight, having seen you to-night in Mrs. Curwen’s box at the Opera, and afterwards I learnt from this gentleman, Mr. Mayhew, of your Embassy, that you were staying here. I am Colonel Vasca, this is Colonel Damara,” and we all bowed again like willows in a breeze. “We come from the King, and bring His Majesty’s earnest request that you will wait upon him at the Palace at eleven o’clock to-morrow, when he desires to present you to Her Majesty the Queen Mother, who adds her request to His Majesty’s.”
The amazement of everyone in the room was complete, while the police official was lost in bewilderment. I think I rather enjoyed the situation, and answered very gravely—
“Their Majesty’s desires would have been commands, but unfortunately I shall be prevented. This person, a police agent, has arrested me, so that instead of being in His Majesty’s Palace I shall be in one of His Majesty’s prisons, I presume. Perhaps you will be good enough to explain the cause of my absence.”
The seriousness of my manner and the incongruity of the reply turned the thing in a moment to broad farce; with results which can be easily understood.
The King’s messengers routed the Quesada agent in half a dozen words, and sent him and his men packing about their business. Then they made me a thousand profuse, most elaborate, and somewhat tedious apologies, and took their leave with signs of respect for me that were almost overpowering.
And no sooner were they gone than the other side of the incident was put before me very pungently by Sarita, who asked with a very sharp and searching glance—
“How comes the young King to be so friendly with you, Ferdinand, and apparently under so great an obligation?”
The question showed that even a king’s favour may not be without its embarrassments; for in truth I did not know how to answer.