A CONFERENCE
A few days later, at nine-thirty in the evening, Quentin climbed the
stairs of a house on the Calle del Cister.
He entered the second floor, traversed the lay-brother’s school--a large
room with tables in rows and placards on the walls--and passed into the
Lodge, which was a garret with a table at one end and an oil lamp that
provided the only light.
Quentin could not tell whether the honourable Masons there assembled
were in a white meeting or coloured meeting; the session must have been
over, for the President, Don Paco, was perorating--though now deprived
of his presidential dignity--among the rabble of the Aventine Hill.
Don Paco was a veritable river of words. All of the stock revolutionary
phrases came fluently to his lips. “The rights of a citizen,”--“the
ominous yoke of reaction” ... “the heroic efforts of our fathers” ...,
“a just punishment for his perversity”....
Don Paco pronounced all these phrases as though by the mere act of
saying them, they were realized.
If they charged one of the Masonic brothers with a dangerous mission,
and he made the excuse of having a family, Don Paco said, as Cato would
have remarked:
“Country before family.”
But if the dangerous mission were for _him_, Don Paco would argue that
he did not wish to compromise the sacred cause of liberty by a rash act.
Sometimes, instead of saying sacred, he said venerable, which, for Don
Paco, had its own value and distinctive meaning.
If some Progressist leader in Madrid was supposed to have been a traitor
against either the sacred, or the venerable cause, Don Paco cried out in
the Lodge:
“_A la barra_ with the citizen! _A la barra!_”
He himself did not know what _la barra_ was; but it was a matter of a
cry that would sound well, and that sounded admirably: _A la barra!_
When he was too excited, Don Paco admired English parliamentarism above
everything else. Quentin had once told him that he looked like Sir
Robert Peel.
Quentin had seen the figure of that orator on an advertisement for
shoe-blacking; he had nothing but the vaguest ideas of Sir Robert’s
existence; but it was all the same to Don Paco, and the comparison made
him swell with pride.
Aside from these political farces, Don Paco Sánchez Olmillo, Master
Surgeon and Master Mason, was a good sort of person, without an evil
trait; he was a small, bald-headed old man, pimply and apopleptic. He
had a thick neck, eyes that bulged so far from his head that they looked
as if they had been stuck into his skin. At the slightest effort, with
the most insignificant of his phrases, he blushed to the roots of his
hair; if he turned loose one of his cries, his blush changed from red to
violet, and even to blue.
Don Paco had great admirers among the members of the Lodge; they
considered him a tremendous personage.
Quentin called to Diagasio, the long-handed hardware merchant, and said:
“Tell Don Paco I’m waiting for him.”
“He’s speaking.”
“Well, I’m in a hurry.”
Diagasio left him, and presently Don Paco came over, still orating, and
surrounded by several friends.
“No,” he was saying, “I claim it, and I shall always claim it. We
Spaniards are not yet ready to accept the republican form of government.
Ah, gentlemen! If we were in England! In that freest of all lands, the
cradle of liberties, ... of sacred liberties.”
“Very well,”--said Quentin quickly, “that discourse does not concern me.
I came to tell you that I have received an answer to the letter I sent,
and that he has made an appointment.”
Don Paco returned to his friends, and now and then a phrase reached
Quentin: “A dangerous mission,” “mysteries,” “the police,” “the result
will be known later.” Then the worthy President came over to Quentin.
“Will some one accompany us?”
“No; why should they? The more people that go, the worse it will be.”
“That’s true. They will mistrust us.”
Don Paco took leave of his friends as Sir Robert Peel might have done
had they taken that gentleman to the gallows: they descended the stairs,
and came out upon the street.
They made their way to the Gran Capitán, from there to the Victoria, and
then, passing the Puerta de Gallegos, they travelled toward the Puerta
de Almodóvar.
Quentin felt a great sense of satisfaction when he observed the fact
that the old man was frightened. At every step Don Paco said to him:
“Some one is following us.”
“Don’t be idiotic. Who is going to follow us?”
“Ah! You don’t know what a terrible police force those men have!”
To Don Paco, life was all mystery, darkness, espionage, conspiracy. To
sum up: it was fear, and the fear in this instance was neutralized by
speaking aloud, and humming selections from comic operas.
This mixture of petulance and fright amused Quentin greatly. When he saw
that the old man was very animated, humming an air from “Marina,” or
from “El Domino Azúl,” he said to him:
“Hush, Don Paco, I think I saw a man spying on us from among those
trees.”
Immediately the animation of the worthy President changed into an
evil-omened silence.
As the two men followed the wall, the enormous, red moon rose over the
town like a dying sun; the Cathedral tower looked very white against the
dark blue sky.... They passed a tile-kiln, and Quentin, seeing that Don
Paco was dispirited, said:
“I think we can be at ease now, for from here on there are no guards nor
watchmen to spy on us.”
These words heartened the old man; a moment later, he was humming a
piece from “El Domino Azúl,” which contained words to the effect that he
did not want his dove so near the hawk.
Then, absolutely at ease, he commenced to say in a pompous voice:
“There are moments in the lives of cities as there are in those of
individuals....”
“A speech! Don Paco, for Heaven’s sake! At a time like this!” exclaimed
Quentin....
The old man, seeing that he could not continue his discourse, said
familiarly:
“The things that have been accomplished in our lifetime, Quentin! When
we first met, there in the Café de Pepon, on the Calle de Antonio de
Morales, we were a mere handful of men with advanced ideas.... Today,
you see how different it is. And all through my efforts, Quentin. I
inaugurated the Reading Centre for workmen, and the Patrician Lodge ...;
I was one of the Hatchet Club, and one of the founders of the Committee.
I was always conspiring.”
“You are very brave,” said Quentin slyly.
“No; all I am is patriotic; really, Quentin. How many times at night
have I ventured out in disguise, sometimes along the Gran Capitán, or
through any of the sally-ports on the left, and reached the bridge by
encircling the wall! There I used to glide along the fosses of the
Calahorra castle, climb down to the other bank of the Guadalquivir, and
continue down stream until I struck the Montilla turnpike. At other
times I crossed the river by the Adalid ford, to come out later behind
the Campo de la Verdad in a bit of land called Los Barreros, where a
guard received me most informally.”
“Why all these masquerades, Don Paco?”
“You may believe that they were all necessary.”
Don Paco and Quentin were walking toward the river, when suddenly,
between the Puerta de Seville, and the Cementerio de la Salud, they
heard a loud, harsh voice that rang out powerfully in the silence of the
night.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
“Two men,” answered Quentin sarcastically, “at least that’s what we look
like.”
“For God’s sake don’t!” exclaimed Don Paco. “They might shoot.”
The voice, louder and more threatening than before, shouted again:
“Halt, in the name of the _guardia civil_!”
“We are halted,” stammered Don Paco, trembling.
“Advance.”
They approached the spot where they had heard the voices; one of the
guards, after looking at them closely, said:
“What are you doing here at this time of night?”
“This gentleman,” said Quentin, “has been called to a farmhouse to bleed
a sick man.”
“Is he a blood-letter?”
“I’m a doctor,” said Don Paco.
“What are you?”
“I’m his assistant.”
“Why didn’t you answer us immediately?”
“On account of the effect you had on us,” said Quentin slyly.
“Well, you’re lucky to be let off,” remarked the guard.
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Quentin.
“Pacheco has been about these nights.”
Don Paco began to tremble like a leaf.
“Well, we must go and bleed that sick man,” said Quentin. “Adiós,
Señores.”
“Good night.”
They went around the wall, and suddenly Don Paco came to a determined
halt.
“No; I’m not going!” he exclaimed.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“It is very imprudent for us to go and see Pacheco,” the old man
stammered. “We shall discredit the cause.”
“You might have thought of that before.”
“Well, I’m not going.”
“Very well; I shall go alone.”
“No, no.... Ah, my God!”
“Are you ill, Don Paco?”
“Yes; I believe I’ve taken cold--” replied the terrible revolutionist in
a trembling voice. “Furthermore, I do not see the necessity of visiting
Pacheco at this time of night.”
“Then I’ll go if you wish.”
“What’s the use?” added the old man insinuatingly. “Everybody will think
that we went to see Pacheco. Neither of us need deny the fact; so why
should we go now and expose ourselves to a serious danger? Besides, it’s
a cold night, and cold is not healthy.”
“But we have an appointment with Pacheco.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Then there is still another reason,” continued Quentin.
“What is it?”
“If we go back now, and the guards see us, they’ll get suspicious.”
“Then what shall we do?”
“I think the best thing to do is to go ahead.”
Don Paco sighed, and very reluctantly followed after Quentin. The moon
was climbing higher in the sky. The old man walked along profoundly
disheartened. After half an hour had elapsed, he said:
“Now we can go back.”
“What for? We’ve only a little farther to go.”
A moment later they left the road and approached the house. Quentin
thrust his fingers into his mouth and whistled shrilly.
“They’re coming,” said Don Paco, trembling.
In a few seconds, they heard another whistle. Quentin went to the door
of the house; at the same time, a small window was opened, and Pacheco
said in a low voice:
“Is that you, Quentin?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right down.”
The door opened noiselessly, and Don Paco and Quentin entered a dark
vestibule.
“This way,” said Pacheco’s voice.
“Why don’t you light a lamp?” asked Don Paco.
“Light can be seen at a distance.”
They crossed the vestibule and entered a kitchen illuminated by a lamp.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” said the bandit. He closed the kitchen door, and
threw an armful of dried branches upon the fire. “It’s a cold night,” he
added.
Don Paco and Quentin sat down, and the latter began to speak:
“This gentleman,” he said, “is Don Paco Sánchez Olmillo, who, as you
know, is one of the members of the Revolutionary Junta and Chief of the
Patrician Lodge.”
“No, not Chief,” Don Paco interrupted. “The Masons have no chiefs.”
“We won’t discuss the use of words now; the idea is to come to an
understanding. This gentleman, and other members of the Junta, have
thought that you, comrade, could help them start a movement, and wish to
get into touch with you.”
“The fact is,” said Don Paco, who believed that Quentin was compromising
him a bit too much, “that I have no power--”
“It’s not a question of legal power, nor of lawyers,” replied Quentin.
“With us, one’s word is sufficient.”
“It’s absolute, comrade,” added Pacheco.
“Don Paco, you wished to know if Pacheco could organize the movement,
did you not?”
“Yes; that is it essentially.”
“Very well; now you know, Pacheco. Kindly tell us if you can undertake
the work, and under what conditions.”
“See here, Quentin,” said the bandit, “you already know my ideas, and
that I am more liberal than Riego. I don’t want a thing for helping
along the Revolution: no money, nor any kind of a reward; I’m not going
to haggle over that. What I do want is, that they will not do me a bad
turn. Because those Junta fellows, and I don’t mean this gentleman, are
capable of ’most any thing. I’ll go to Cordova and see what people I can
count on, and I’ll do all the work there is to do; but under one
condition; and that is, that all those gentlemen of the Junta will
guarantee that the police will not interfere with me. That is to say, I
don’t mind exposing myself to being shot, but I don’t want to get shot
in the belt for nothing.”
“I have no authority--” said Don Paco, “nor the attributes....”
“You will have to take that up with the Junta,” said Quentin. “Why don’t
you go, comrade?”
“No; I’m not going to Cordova.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m afraid that they have sold me, and it wouldn’t go well with
the man who did it.”
“A couple of guards stopped us yonder, and told us that they were
waiting for you,” said Quentin.
“Where?”
“Near the Cementerio de la Salud.”
“Well, let ’em squat,” said Pacheco, “but let us get at what we are
going to do. Comrade, if you will do me the favour of seeing those Junta
fellows and speaking to them, you can tell them exactly what I want. If
they accept, tell El Cuervo; he’ll see to it that I receive the answer,
and the next day I’ll be in Cordova.”
“Then, there’s nothing more to say.”
The three men rose to their feet.
“Well, let’s be going, Don Paco,” said Quentin.
“Man alive, wouldn’t it be better for us to stay here all night?”
“As you wish.”
“Are there any beds here?”
“I should say not!”
“I sleep in the strawloft,” said Pacheco. “I’ll go with you, if you
wish.”
Don Paco hesitated between going over the road again, and passing a bad
night, and chose the latter.
“Let us go to the strawloft.”
Pacheco took a lantern, opened the kitchen door, traversed a patio, then
another, and mounting a staircase, came to a hole; it was the strawloft.
“Stretch out,” said Pacheco; “tomorrow, day will break, and the one-eyed
man will see his asparagus. Good night!”
Quentin removed his boots, and in a little while was fast asleep.
In the morning a loud voice awoke him.
“Muleteers! Day’s dawning!”
Quentin sat up; the sun was pouring through the cracks in the loft;
cocks were crowing. Pacheco had gone. Don Paco, seated on the straw,
with a coloured handkerchief on his head, was groaning.
“What a night! My God, what a night!” Quentin heard him say.
“What! Didn’t you sleep, Don Paco?”
“Not a minute. But you slept like a log.”
“Well, let’s be going.”
They got up, and picked the straw off their clothes, like feathers from
a goose.
They left the farm. It was a superb day. When they drew near the
Cementerio de la Salud, they descended to the river, and traversing the
Alameda del Corregidor, between the Seminary and the Arabian mill, they
came out at the bridge gate.
“This afternoon at the Casino,” said Don Paco, who once within the city
was beginning to regain his presence of mind.
“At what time?”
“At dusk.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Now you see what one does for one’s ideas,” said Don Paco in the
Casino. “One sacrifices one’s self for the Revolution, and for the
Country; one faces the odium of the Moderates for years and years; one
exposes one’s self to all the dangers imaginable; and even then they do
not count one among the founders. They speak of Olózaga, of Sagasta....
I tell you it is an outrage.”
“Hello, Don Paco,” greeted Quentin. “Are you all rested from your bad
night?”
“Yes. Let us interview those men.”
“Whenever you wish.”
“Let us go now.”
“Where do we have to go?”
“To the house of the Count of Doña Mencia. The Junta is meeting there.”
The Count lived in one of the central streets of Cordova. They entered
the vestibule and rang. A servant opened the gate and accompanied them
to the main floor, to a large hall with a panelled ceiling, and
illuminated by two wax candles. On the walls were highly polished
portraits, in enormous, heavily carved frames. A young man with a black
beard greeted Don Paco and Quentin, and conducted them into an office
where eight or ten persons were seated.
These men did not interrupt their conversation at the entrance of the
new comers, but went on talking: the Revolution was spreading throughout
all Andalusia; the Revolutionary troops were marching on Cordova....
Don Paco heard this news, and then spoke to one of the gentlemen about
his conversation with Pacheco. This gentleman came up to Quentin and
said:
“Tell Pacheco that he can rest easy as far as I am concerned. I shall do
all in my power to keep them from apprehending him.”
“Do you hear what the Count of Doña Mencia says?” Don Paco asked
Quentin.
“Yes, but it is not enough,” replied Quentin, who felt profoundly
irritated upon hearing that name. “I went to see Pacheco because Don
Paco told me that he could be useful to you in organizing the people.
Whether or not my friend has power, I do not know; what I do know is
this, that Pacheco, in order to come to Cordova, makes the condition
that you gentlemen must give your word that he will not be arrested, and
that they will play no tricks on him. Now you may find out whether that
suits you or not.”
The violent tone employed by Quentin surprised the gentlemen of the
Junta; some of them protested, but the Count went over to the
protestants and spoke to them in a low voice. They discussed Pacheco’s
proposition; some said that such complicity with a bandit was
dishonourable; others were merely concerned with whether he would be
useful or not. Finally they made up their minds, and one of them came up
to Quentin and said:
“You may tell your friend,” and the man emphasized the word, “that he
will not be molested in Cordova.”
“Do you all hold yourselves responsible for him?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Good afternoon.”
Quentin inclined his head slightly, left the office, crossed the hall,
and went into the street. He made his way to El Cuervo’s tavern, where
he told the landlord to let Señor José know that he could come to
Cordova with absolute safety.