AN ABDUCTION IS PREPARED
At nightfall Quentin went out on the roof, stretched his spine along the
ridge, and waited for Pacheco. The Cathedral clock was striking eight,
when the bandit appeared, making his way toward the garret on all fours.
“Hey!” called Quentin.
“What is it? Is it you?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you waiting outside for me?”
“So we can talk without that woman hearing what we say. I have persuaded
her to go home peaceably.”
“Very good. But listen, comrade; I’ve got a plan ready for something
worth while.”
“I’m with you in everything. What have you thought of?”
“Of kidnapping La Aceitunera tonight.”
“But can it be done?”
“Absolutely. The Countess is going to the theatre. She will go in her
carriage as usual, and if Cabra Periquito Gálvez doesn’t show up to
accompany her, she will go home alone in her carriage. If Periquito does
show up, and does go with her, we won’t do a thing; if she is alone,
why, we’ll steal her away.”
“That’s all very well; but how?”
“First of all, I’ll see to it that the coachman gets drunk so I can
take his place; meanwhile, you go to the theatre, make sure that she is
alone, then station yourself on the sidewalk opposite the lobby, and
stay there quietly; if she comes out escorted, you light a match as if
you were about to smoke--understand?”
“Where will you be then?”
“On the box. If the Countess is escorted, why, I’ll take her home, and
we’ll leave the matter for another day. If she is alone, I’ll trot the
horses as far as the Campo de la Merced, where I’ll stop; you get
on--and away we go!”
“Very good. You’re a wonder, comrade! But let’s look coldly at the
inconveniences.”
“Out with them.”
“First of all, the departure from this place. They are still hanging
around the street, according to El Cuervo.”
“Ah, but do you think I am such an idiot as to go out through El
Cuervo’s tavern? _Ca_, man!”
“No?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, where, then?”
“You’ll see.”
“Good. That solves the first problem: second, I have to go to the
theatre to see if the Countess is alone, and people know me; if one of
the police....”
“Nothing will happen. Take this ticket. Steal in when the performance
has begun, and go upstairs, open one of the top boxes which are usually
empty, and if the usher comes in, give him a peseta. He’s a friend of
mine.”
“Good. Now we’ll tell the woman, and be on our way. Shall we have supper
first?” asked Quentin.
“No; we must have clear heads. We’ll have supper at the El Pino farm,
or--in jail.”
“You’ve spoken like a man. Let’s go.”
They entered the garret.
“Doña Sinda,” said Quentin, “we are going to crawl about the roof a
bit.”
“Wait a moment, comrade,” said Pacheco. “They won’t do anything to me;
but if they see you, they’ll tie you up,” and as he spoke, he opened a
wardrobe, took out a grey cloak, a kerchief, and a broad-brimmed hat.
“Who’s that for?”
“For you.”
Pacheco made a bundle of the things, and said:
“Hurry! I’ll go first, then the Señora, and then you, Quentin.”
They formed themselves in single file and began to move. The night was
dark, threatening a storm; distant flashes of lightning illuminated the
heavens from time to time.
Doña Sinda moved slowly and painfully.
“Come, Señora, come,” said Quentin; “we are near you.”
“My hands and knees hurt me,” she murmured. “If I could only walk on my
feet.”
“You can’t do it,” said Pacheco. “You would fall into a courtyard.”
“Ay, dear me! I’m not going a step farther.”
“We’re going as far as that azotea.”
Doña Sinda yielded; they crawled along the ridge of a long roof, and
came out upon the azotea. They leaped the balustrade.
“Oh, dear! I’m going to stay here!” exclaimed Doña Sinda.
“But my dear woman, it’s only a little farther,” said Quentin.
“Well, I won’t budge.”
“Very well then, we’ll go on alone,” said Pacheco.
“Are we going to leave her here?” asked Quentin.
The bandit shrugged his shoulders, and without more ado, leaped over the
balustrade again. Quentin followed him, and the two men rapidly covered
a great distance.
“Now be careful,” warned Pacheco. “We’ve got to go around this cornice
until we reach that window.”
It was a stone border about half a metre wide. At the end of it they
could see a little illuminated balcony window, which as it threw the
light against the wall, made the cornice look as if it were on the brink
of a deep abyss. They went along very carefully on all fours, one behind
the other. As they reached the balcony, Pacheco seized the balustrade
and jumped upon the stairway. Quentin followed his example.
“Do you know, comrade,” remarked Quentin, “that this is scary business?”
“Then too, that light is enough to drive you crazy. In the daytime it
doesn’t scare you at all to come over it. Now then, put on your cloak
and the other tackle.”
Quentin tied his kerchief about his head, put on the hat, wrapped
himself in the cloak and the two men descended the stairs into a garden.
Crossing this, they came out upon the street.
“What is this building?” asked Quentin.
“It is a convent,” replied the bandit. “Now, we mustn’t go together any
more. You come along about twenty or thirty paces behind me.”
Quentin followed him at a distance, and after traversing several
intricate alleys, they came out upon the Plaza de Séneca, and from there
upon the Calle de Ambrosio de Morales, where the theatre was. A gas
light illuminated the door, scarcely lessening the shadows of the
street. The play had not yet begun. Pacheco entered a near-by shop, and
Quentin followed him.
“You stay here,” said the bandit, “and when everybody has gone in, you
follow. I’m going to the Countess’ house.”
People were crowding into the theatre; two or three carriages drove up;
several whole families came along, with a sprinkling of artisans. When
he no longer saw anyone in the lobby, Quentin left the little shop,
entered the theatre, relinquished his ticket, climbed the stairs with
long strides until he reached the top floor, and when he saw the usher,
handed him a peseta.
The usher opened the door of a box.
“How is Señor José?” he asked.
“Well.”
“He’s a fine fellow.”
“Yes, he is.”
“I’ve known him for a long time; not that I am from Ecija exactly, for I
come from a little village near Montilla; I don’t know if you’ve heard
its name....”
“See here,” said Quentin, “I came here because I am a relative of the
actor who takes old men’s parts, and I am interested in hearing the
performance and seeing how he acts; if you talk to me, I won’t be able
to hear anything.”
“Gonzáles? Are you a relative of Gonzáles?”
“Of Gonzáles, or Martínez, or the devil! Take another peseta, and leave
me alone, for I’m going to see what kind of an actor my relative makes.”
“He’s a good comedian.”
“Very well, very well,” said Quentin, and pushing the garrulous usher
into the aisle, he closed the door.
As there was scarcely any light up there, no one could recognize
Quentin. The theatre was almost empty; they were giving a lachrymose
melodrama in which appeared an angelic priest, a colonel who kept
shouting “By a thousand bombs!” a traitor money-lender with crooked eyes
who confessed his evil intentions in asides, a heroine, a hero, and a
company of sailors and sailoresses, policemen, magistrates, and others
of the proletariat....
While Quentin was being bored in his heights, Pacheco, leaning against
the wall of La Aceitunera’s house, was awaiting the return of her
carriage from the theatre.
He did not have long to wait. The horses stopped before the gate, and
before it could be opened, the bandit approached the coachman and said:
“Hello, Señor Antonio!”
“Hello, Señor José!”
“I want to talk with you a moment.”
“What about?”
“About some horses I am ordered to buy, and as you know so much....”
“I’ll be right out.”
The house gate opened, the coachman drove his carriage inside, and in a
few moments rejoined Pacheco.
He was a talkative and gay little man.
“Let’s go somewhere and have a little wine with our talk,” suggested the
bandit. “You’ve got time?”
“I’m free until eleven-thirty.”
“It’s nine, now.”
They went into a tavern where Pacheco explained to his friend how the
horses must be. The matter must have been arduous and difficult, for the
coachman lost himself in a labyrinth of endless equinal considerations.
The bandit kept filling and refilling his glass for him as he drank.
“Man,” said Pacheco, “today I was taken to a tavern where there was a
superior wine that you can’t find anywhere else.”
“Really?”
“I should say so. Would you like to go and see if we can find it?”
“Well, you see I’ve got to go at eleven-thirty.”
“There’s more than time enough.”
“All right; let me know when it’s eleven o’clock.”
“Certainly, don’t you worry. Do you have to go back and get the Señora?”
“Yes.”
“And harness up the horses again?”
“No. I left them harnessed. When I get back from the theatre, I go
through the gate, turn the carriage around in the patio, and leave it in
the entryway facing the street,--see? Then I go, open the gate, and I’m
off.”
Pacheco conducted the coachman through side streets to El Cuervo’s
tavern.
“But where is that tavern, my friend?” asked the little old man.
“Right here.”
They went into the tavern.
“Bring me wine--the best you have,” said Pacheco, winking at El Cuervo.
The innkeeper brought a large jar and filled the glasses. The coachman
smelled the wine, tasted it slowly, relished it; then he smacked his
lips, and emptied the glass in one gulp.
“What wine!” he murmured.
“Don’t you think it’s a little bit strong?”
“Well, that’s a good kind of a fault to have, comrade!”
Pacheco got up and said to El Cuervo:
“You’ve got to keep this fellow interested.”
El Mochuelo and Cantarote, the gipsy, came over to Pacheco’s table with
the pretext that there was no light where they had been sitting, and
began to play cards.
“Would you like to play?” said Cantarote to Pacheco.
“No, thanks.”
“And you?” the gipsy asked of the coachman.
“I? To tell the truth, I’ve got something to do. What time is it?”
“A quarter past ten,” said El Cuervo.
“All right, I’ll play a hand.”
“After all, what have you got to do?” asked Pacheco. “Just knock till
they open the gate, and then climb up on the box....”
“No, I’ve got the key to the gate here,” remarked the coachman, patting
his vest pocket.
Pacheco looked at Cantarote, and made a gesture with his hand as if he
were picking up something. Cantarote lowered his eyelids as a sign that
he had understood, and with the utmost neatness put his hand into the
old man’s vest, took out the key, and, holding his cards in his left
hand, handed it to Pacheco behind the coachman’s back.
The bandit got up.
“Let me have a cap,” he said to El Cuervo.
The innkeeper brought one.
“Keep him busy for an hour.”
This said, Pacheco hurried to the Countess’ house, opened wide the gate,
climbed to the box, and drove the carriage outside; then he closed the
gate, climbed back again, and took his place near the theatre.
From his hiding-place, Quentin had discovered something curious and
worthy of note. In one of the boxes near the curtain was the Countess,
alone, with her back to the stage, and gazing at some one through her
glasses. Quentin followed her look, and by bending low and leaning his
body over the box, he discovered that the box at which she was directing
her glances was occupied by the Governor and two other persons; but the
Countess also looked elsewhere: toward a parquette where there were a
toreador and several young gentlemen.
“Which is she looking at?” Quentin asked himself. “Is it the Governor,
or the toreador?”
The Countess rested her opera glasses absently upon the railing of the
box.
“Perhaps she isn’t looking at any one,” thought Quentin.
On the stage, they were spilling an ocean of tears: the priest, with his
snow-white hair, saying, “My children” everywhere he went, was busy
making his fellows happy.
The Countess cast an absent-minded glance at the stage, picked up her
glasses, and took aim.
“It’s the Governor,” said Quentin.
The woman’s glasses were lowered a bit, and he had to correct himself.
“It’s the toreador,” he remarked.
After many vacillations, Quentin realized that the Countess was playing
with two stacks of cards, and was dividing her glances between the First
Authority of the province, and the young toreador, so recently arrived
in cultured society from a butcher shop in the district of El Matadero.
The Governor, very serious, very much be-gloved, looked at the woman;
the little toreador, with his foot on the parquette rail, preened
himself and smiled, showing the white teeth of a healthy animal.
At the beginning of the last act, the toreador, who had been concealed
behind the curtains of the parquette, appeared with a square piece of
paper that looked like a note in his hand; he showed it cautiously, and
twisted it about his fingers.
Presently the woman, looking at the stage, nodded her head in the
affirmative.
The play was about to come to an end; every one on the stage, from the
priest and the two turtle-doves to the colonel--by a thousand
bombs!--was happy; only, he of the crooked eyes had been seized by the
police at the height of his evil machinations. Quentin opened his box,
descended the stairs by leaps and bounds, and took up his post opposite
the entrance to the theatre. Fat drops of rain commenced to fall, and
the thunder kept grumbling overhead. There were two carriages at the
door of the theatre. Pacheco was not in the first, and Quentin could not
tell whether he was in the second one or not.
The audience began to come out of the theatre; when they saw the heavy
rain drops that spattered the sidewalk, some hesitated to leave, then
they made up their minds and began to hurry along, pressing close to the
walls of the houses.
A fat lady with her escort entered the first carriage, and drove off
toward the Plaza de Séneca. The second carriage drew up. Pacheco was on
the box. He and Quentin glanced at each other. Everything was going
splendidly.
Just then the Countess appeared in the lobby of the theatre wrapped in a
white cape; she opened the door of the carriage and climbed rapidly into
it. Behind her appeared the toreador, and as the carriage was about to
move off, he held out his hand and threw a note through the window.
Pacheco clucked to the horses, and the carriage started up the street
toward the confluence of the Calle del Arco Real and the Cuesta de
Luján. Quentin started off rapidly in the direction of the Campo de la
Merced; he ran as fast as his legs could carry him, fearing all the
while that he might meet some watchman who would recognize him. When he
reached the appointed place he was played out. He waited, soaked in a
torrential downpour. Before long, a carriage came in sight and stopped
before him. Quentin opened the door and stood upon the step. A woman
screamed shrilly. Quentin closed the carriage door; there came two
tremendous cracks of a whip; and the coach moved off through the rain
and obscurity, drawn by the horses at a full gallop....