BURGLARS
The notables of Sarrio resolved to abstain from setting foot in the
street at night, therefore the Club, Graell's shop-parlor, and even
Morana's, were all deserted at an early hour. The five or six locksmiths
in the town were given more orders for locks, bolts, iron bars, and
patent keys than they could execute.
The robbers of Las Acenas had not been caught, and every one declared,
with more or less authority, that they were still prowling about the
place, ready to slip in anywhere at some unexpected minute.
Nevertheless, as one gets accustomed to everything, even illness, and
even to the discussions at the atheneum, they became accustomed to the
danger, and again sallied forth of an evening, after taking great
precautions to well lock up their houses.
The first to venture was Marin. As all Dona Brigida's efforts to induce
him to retire to rest at a reasonable hour were of no avail, she let him
go out without any pity.
Don Jaime asked permission to carry under the blue military cloak that
he wore at night an old, short gun kept in the garret, and the
magnanimous senora granted the permission under the condition that he
take it unloaded. Then Alvaro Pena sallied forth, for having a certain
military reputation and being a man of reputed courage, it behooved him
to show bravery at such a critical time.
He carried two saddle pistols in his pockets, and a sword-stick in his
hand.
The mayor, Don Roque, who from time immemorial had repaired to Morana's
with Don Segis, the chaplain of the Augustine convent, and Don Benigno,
the curate of the parish, there to imbibe in the course of the evening
from four to eight quarterns of Rueda wine, could not put up with the
domestic hearth for more than three days; so he also sallied forth into
the town.
The octogenarian official, Marcones, armed with carbine and sword,
accompanied his chief, himself carrying a revolver and a sword-stick.
Don Melchor, Gabino Maza, Don Pedro Miranda, Delaunay, Don Mateo, and
all the others soon followed suit, and repaired to the nocturnal
resorts. The West Indians held out longer. Thus Graell's parlor,
Morana's, and the Club were transformed into veritable arsenals at
nightfall. Each one, on his arrival, put his war accoutrements against
the wall, and on leaving the places they seized them with an intrepid
courage worthy of the Biscayan blood that coursed in the veins of nearly
all of them.
The old-fashioned harquebus stood side by side with the modern repeating
rifle, the cylindrical iron sword by the steel bladed modern
sword-stick, the heavy bronze pistol by the plated revolver. And this
diversity of war accoutrements served to sustain the warlike spirit so
necessary for the occasion.
Certain other measures of great utility had been adopted. The watchmen
had orders not to extinguish any street lamp until twelve o'clock at
night. They were provided with more powerful whistles than the old ones;
and they had orders to keep their eyes on any stranger passing along the
streets at night. The townsfolk wisely agreed among themselves not to
make way on the sidewalk for anybody, as it might not be a friend, and
everybody knows how propitious to criminals the custom of making way on
the sidewalk is. Full of this idea, Don Pedro Miranda and Don Feliciano
Gomez met one night in the Calle de San Florencio. They were both
muffled up in their cloaks, with their swords unsheathed, prepared for
any emergency, when Don Feliciano cried to Don Pedro from afar:
"Well, friend, make way!"
"Bah! bah! make way yourself," returned Don Pedro.
"You are the one to make way," replied the merchant; "make way, make
way."
"Bah, bah, be kind enough to let me pass," returned Senor Miranda.
Neither man budged an inch. They unmuffled themselves and unsheathed
their swords.
"Will you have the kindness?"
"Will you have the goodness?"
Who knows what awful tragedy might not have taken place in Sarrio at
that instant, if they had not recognized each other?
"Does it happen to be Don Feliciano?"
"Is it Don Pedro?"
"Don Feliciano!"
"Don Pedro!"
And rushing to each other, they shook hands with effusion.
"What a fate would have been yours had I not recognized you, Don
Feliciano!" exclaimed Senor Miranda, showing his broad iron sword with
its bone handle.
"And yours would not have been agreeable, Don Pedro!" returned the
merchant, as he made passes in the air with his finely polished Toledo
blade.
One had to go down two steps to enter Morana's shop. The shop was a
confectioner's, although it did not look like it; it was the only
confectioner's in Sarrio. Nowadays there are three, if I am not
mistaken. I say, it did not look like a confectioner's, because church
tapers, wax hands and feet and bodies for votive offerings were sold
there and had gradually become the chief stock in trade instead of a
mere supplementary one; and this was due to the lack of greediness in
the town, which speaks very well for it. It is usual in Spain for the
folk of little villages and towns to be passionately fond of sweets, for
want of the pleasures peculiar to great towns, for, say what one may,
the pleasures of the table even are not equal in small towns to those of
large ones. In the first place, clever cooks are not forthcoming, the
food has not the variety induced by the laws of biology, and the palate
has not risen to the state of culture from a right and just estimate of
the culinary science.
Perhaps it will be remarked: "But the nuns of St. Augustine used to make
sweets." Yes, but we must remember that this manufacture was limited
exclusively to preserves of cherry, quince, pear, and apricot, almond
tart and burrage tart, and a particular sweetmeat shaped like fishes'
fins, called orange flower.
I can only repeat the fact that there are few high livers in Sarrio.
After all, rare as this abstemiousness may be in towns in the interior,
it is common in maritime places, which are known to be less under
ecclesiastical sway. For observation teaches the visitor of the towns
that more sweets are consumed where church services and religious rites
absorb the greater part of life, and where enthusiasm for the religious
sentiment is evinced in nones, masses, confraternities, and canonries,
which shows that there must be some mysterious affinity between
mysticism and sweetmeats.
This branch of Morana's business was exhibited in the shop by two pine
wood cupboards, painted blue, with glass doors at each end of the
counter. In these cupboards there was a fair show of caramels, spiral
cakes, sugar cakes, almond cakes, madeleines, and above all the
celebrated tablets, the renown of which must certainly have reached the
ears of our readers, as it dates from remotest time. The secret of the
magic composition of these tablets we have never been able to discover,
but their fascination was irresistible, and, strange to say, it was
based upon their extraordinary hardness. At the age when Morana's
tablets are eaten, the chief thing is not that the sweets should be
delicate, savory, and exquisite, but that they should last a long time.
It was not easy to get the teeth into them at all, but once in this
stick-jaw paste, the extrication from it presented a really difficult
problem.
Allow me to offer a delicate tribute of affection and gratitude to
these tablets which, from four to eight years of age, constituted the
greatest joy of my existence.
It is perhaps to their sweet influence that the author of this book owes
the optimistic spirit which, according to the critics, shines in his
works.
Morana, daughter and successor of another Morana, who was dead, was a
woman of forty years of age, of a pallid complexion, with gutta-percha
plaisters on her temples for the severe pains in her head.
She married a Juan Chrysostom, who, according to Don Segis, the
chaplain, did not take after his patron saint.
Nevertheless, when he administered corporal punishment to his wife, he
seasoned it with rather a rare amount of learned talk.
"I who love this woman," he exclaimed, as he commenced operations--"I
who love this woman like a wife, and not like a servant, according to
the Apostle Paul's command--you have read the Apostle Saint Paul?--what
right have you to read, you great ass!"
The wine was very good, one can almost say it was the only good thing in
the place, and that was because it did not remain long in the bottle,
for Don Roque, Don Segis, Don Benigno, Don Juan, "the old Salt," and
Senor Anselmo, the cabinet-maker, took care to empty it. It was a white
wine, strong and superior, and it went to one's head with alarming
facility.
The customers of the shop left every night between eleven and twelve,
rather stumbling in their gaits, but silent and quiet, which prevented
any scandal. They sallied forth arm in arm, leaning one against the
other, and they went along without saying a word, albeit with much
puffing and blowing.
Their instinct, which never completely left them, instigated this
prudent behavior, for they knew if they spoke much or little, some
dispute would arise and then a scandal would ensue. Not a word--not a
word; it was better even not to whisper--and when they arrived at their
houses, they murmured a gruff "good-night" and the one left last was Don
Roque, as he lived further away than anybody.
So these venerable men got intoxicated every night in this solemn,
quiet, patriarchal fashion.
Two of them, Don Juan, "the old Salt," the clerk of the harbor-master,
and Don Segis, were reaping the consequences of that course. "The old
Salt" had a nose enough to frighten one. When least expected, the hour
of retribution came for Don Segis, who, seized with an apoplectic fit,
was left with one leg dragging as if a weight of six pounds were tied to
it. It is true that the insatiable chaplain was not contented with his
four quarterns of wine at the confectioner's; he made Morana give him a
glass of gin in each, which greatly added to the expense; if he had six
quarterns of wine, he had six glasses of gin; if eight, eight; and so
on.
The effect of all this gin was evident.
"But, Don Segis, how can you drink so much gin at a time?"
"There is nothing for it," he replied in a tone of humility; "if I did
not take a glass with every quartern, child of my soul, what would
become of me? I should be ill."
The conversations at Morana's were less exciting and thrilling than
those of the Club. Very few things interested these old parties; the
most important local matters, which excited storms in the Club, were
here treated, or rather touched upon, with indifference.
When the Gonzalezes sent off the captain of the "Carmen" and put an
Andalusian in his place, they only said in a quiet tone:
"If the Gonzalezes have done so, they had reasons for doing it," for
they were quite indifferent on the subject.
"It is true," said another, after some time, raising his glass to his
lips.
"Ripalda seems a good fellow," said a third, after five minutes, as he
put his glass down on the counter.
"Yes, he seems so," replied another gravely.
Ten minutes passed in meditation. The customers gave affectionate kisses
to their glasses, which shone like topaz. Don Roque at last broke the
silence.
"There is no manner of doubt that Don Antonio embraced her."
"Embraced her," said Don Juan, "the Salt."
"Embraced her," echoed Don Benigno.
"Embraced her," corroborated Senor Anselmo.
"Really embraced her," added Don Segis in a lugubrious tone.
Their minds were occasionally exercised on the subject of dovecots.
Senor Anselmo and Don Benigno were devotedly attached to this pursuit;
each had his dovecot, his doves, and mode of management, and long and
lively discussions were held occasionally on the subject. The others
listened without daring to give an opinion, as they raised their glasses
to their lips in solemn silence.
The crime of Las Acenas horrified them, but it did not cause as great a
commotion as in the rest of the neighborhood.
At the end of five or six days they returned to their patriarchal
customs, and such was their bravery that the majority left their arms
behind in the shop.
It was nearer one o'clock than twelve when Don Roque, who had exceeded
by three quarterns his usual six, sallied forth with the other five
frequenters of the confectioner's in a serried line to their different
homes.
Marcones closed the file with his gun on his shoulder. The first of the
line was Don Segis, who lived in a little two-windowed house, close to
the Augustine convent; then came Don Juan "the Salt," then the
coadjutor, and finally Senor Anselmo, pulling out the enormous shining
key with which he beat time when he conducted the orchestra, and opened
the apartment where he slept.
The mayor remained with his aide-de-camp. He said something, but his
aide-de-camp did not hear him. They directed their steps toward home,
which was not far off. But before arriving there, Don Roque, who puffed
and blew like a whale, and whose walk was unmistakably like the gait of
that creature, suddenly stopped and gave a long discourse in a loud
voice, of which Marcones caught nothing but the word "robbers" repeated
several times. The official, alarmed, looked all round to see if he
could see anybody while loading his gun, but he saw nothing to give him
reason to suppose that the villains were at hand. Don Roque made another
remark, if such a term can be applied to a series of strange,
intermittent sounds, both horrible and depressing, but Marcones managed
to gather that his chief wished a hunt made in search of the criminals
of Las Acenas. Marcones thought that the force was hardly equal to the
undertaking; but discipline forbade objections. Moreover, he nourished
the hope that few murderers cared about taking the fresh air at such an
hour. So, after a careful examination of their weapons, they took their
dangerous course through all the streets and alleys of the town.
One is in honor bound to state that Don Roque walked in front as the
leader of the valorous enterprise, with his revolver in his left hand,
and his sword-stick in his right, leaving his noble breast a mark for
the enemy's bullet. Marcones, weighed down by the weight of his gun and
his eighty-two years of age, walked six steps behind.
It was a moonlight night, but great black clouds occasionally darkened
the sky, and the light of the petroleum lamps burning at the corners of
the streets was not sufficient to banish the gloom in them.
Sarrio had five chief streets, known respectively as Rua Nueva, which
runs to the harbor; the Calles of Carborana, of San Florencio, of La
Herreria, and of Atras. These streets, long and narrow, run parallel to
each other. The buildings are generally low and poor. Other smaller
streets cross and communicate with the principal ones, and lead to
branch roads where the spacious residences of the West Indians are
built, and which constitute what may be termed the suburb of Sarrio.
As the party was passing through the Calle de Atras, near to that of
Santa Brigida, they heard cries and lamentations, which obliged them to
halt.
"What's that, Marcones?" asked the mayor.
The old official shrugged his shoulders philosophically:
"Nothing, senor; it is at Patina Santa's."
"How dare they commit these enormities? Let us go there. Let us
proceed."
"Let us proceed," was a phrase both used and abused by Don Roque, as it
conveyed his sense of the decision, rapidity, and energy of his
authority to remedy all grievances. Patina Santa was the great high
priest of one of the two temples of pleasure existing in Sarrio, but the
sordid, wretched appearance of these temples was quite unlike the
ancient famous ones of Greece.
"What scandal is this?" cried Don Roque in his stentorian voice as he
approached the miserable dwelling.
Three or four lads in the street flew away like birds at the sight of
the dignitary, but the doves remained.
Two of them stood at the door and two more were at the windows. Those at
the door wished to withdraw at the sight of the mayor, but he caught
hold of them.
"What is this scandal--eh?" he repeated.
The girls began to explain the cause of the commotion, but hardly had
they uttered a word than Don Roque interrupted them, vociferating:
"To prison with you!"
"Senor, I--"
"To the prison--ah! To the prison, away with you all! Be off, everybody!
Where is the ruffian Patina?"
Merciful heavens, what a commotion then ensued!
The girls at the windows had nothing for it but to come downstairs, and
Patina came with them, for Don Roque brooked no delay. Cries and
lamentations filled the air, while the strident voice of the mayor cried
out incessantly:
"To the prison--ah! To the prison--ah!"
The unhappy creatures called on God and the Virgin; but the mayor, with
his infuriated face and flaming eyes, raised his voice still higher as
he deafened himself with his cry:
"To the prison--ah! To the prison--ah!"
There was no help for it.
The watchman, who had approached at the sound of the first ah's, led
them off to the town prison, in attendance on his worthy chief, while
the neighbors watched the scene from behind their window-panes in
mingled compassion and derision.
Don Roque exercised his authority by locking the door of the dovecot
himself, and handed the key over to Marcones, and with the usual
"Proceed," they continued their perilous course. The mayor and his
aide-de-camp had not gone very far when, in one of the narrowest and
dirtiest streets, they espied a man's figure cautiously approaching a
door, which he tried to open.
"Stop!" whispered Don Roque in the ear of his subordinate. "There is one
of the thieves."
The official only caught the last word, but it was enough to make him
drop his gun.
"Don't tremble, Marcones, for there is only one," said the mayor,
seizing him by the arm.
If the venerable Marcones had been at that moment in full possession of
his faculties of observation, he might have detected a decided tendency
to a convulsive movement in the hand of his chief. The thief, hearing
the steps of the patrol, suddenly turned his head and stood motionless,
with his hand still on the door-handle. Don Roque and his companion also
stood motionless, and the moon appearing from under a cloud shed its
light upon the direful scene.
"Hsh! hsh! friend," said the magistrate at the end of some time, without
advancing a step.
The robber heard this exclamation of authority, and took flight at one
and the same moment.
"At him, Marcones! Fire!" cried Don Roque, courageously running in
pursuit of the criminal.
Marcones wished to follow his chief's injunction, but fear made him
helpless.
The trigger fell without emitting a spark. Then, with martial
promptitude, he cast aside the weapon, which was useless, drew his sword
and made valiant efforts to keep pace with the mayor, who, with intrepid
courage, was at least twenty paces in advance, in pursuit of the robber.
The fellow now disappeared round the corner of a street.
But on their arrival there the pursuers saw him attempting to gain the
next.
"Boom!"
Don Roque fired his revolver, crying at the same time:
"Take that, thief!"
He again disappeared, and again they caught sight of him in the Calle de
la Misericordia.
Boom! Another shot from Don Roque.
"Take that, thief!" But the villain, doubtless as a last resource, and
to prevent any watchman stopping him, began also to cry:
"Thieves! Thieves!"
Then the sharp, long whistles of the watchmen were heard, followed by
another and another.
The street of San Florencio was well lighted, and the criminal was
clearly visible, trying to get quickly under the shadow of the houses.
Boom! Boom!
"Take that, thief!"
"Thieves!" returned the fugitive, without ceasing flight.
Two watchmen joined the column of attack, and ran, brandishing their
pikes, by the side of the mayor.
The thief seemed, at all cost, anxious to reach the Rua Nueva, so as to
gain the harbor, where he could secure himself in a boat, or cast
himself into the water. But before arriving there he stumbled and fell
prostrate on the ground. Thanks to this accident, the patrol gained upon
him considerably, and had almost reached him when the villain jumped up
with great celerity and flew off swifter than the wind. Don Roque fired
off the last two shots of his revolver, still crying:
"Take that, thief!"
He disappeared round the corner of the Rua Nueva. Arrived there, the
magistrate and his force, now near the Plaza de la Marina, saw no sign
of the criminal anywhere. They took a few hesitating steps on to the
said plaza, and there they stopped, not knowing what course to take. "To
the mole! To the mole! He must be there," said a watchman.
They were just about to proceed farther when a window of one of the
houses was suddenly opened and a man in night attire said in sonorous
tones that resounded in the silence of the night:
"The thief has just entered the Cafe de la Marina."
These words were uttered by Don Feliciano Gomez.
When the patrol heard them it rushed to the door of the cafe and
abruptly made its entrance. The sitting-room was empty. There at the
end, by the side of the counter, were three or four lads in white aprons
standing round a man who was lying, more than sitting, upon a chair.
The mayor, the officer, and the watchmen rushed at him with their pikes,
swords, and sword-sticks at his chest, and all with one accord cried:
"Take that, thief!"
The criminal raised his terror-stricken face, now whiter than wax.
"Ah--if it is not Don Jaime, God bless my soul!" exclaimed a watchman,
lowering his pike. All the others did the same, dumb with astonishment.
For indeed it was a fact that the villain they had so hotly pursued was
no other than Don Jaime Marin, taken unawares as he was about to enter
the door of his house.
They had to carry him home and bleed him. On the following day Don Roque
appeared to ask his pardon, which was granted. But Dona Brigida, his
severe spouse, would not grant it until she had given expression to a
storm of recriminatory adjectives, among which that of "drunken" figured
frequently.
Don Roque submitted meekly to the attack, and the matter dropped.