THE MAKERS OF HISTORY
Number Five Calle de la Merced is to this day an empty house, like many
in Saragossa, presenting to the passer-by a dusty stone face and huge
barred windows over which the spiders have drawn their filmy curtain. For
one reason or another there are many empty houses in the larger cities of
Spain and many historical names have passed away. With them have faded
into oblivion some religious orders and not a few kindred brotherhoods.
Number Five Calle de la Merced has its history like the rest of the
monasteries, and the rounded cobblestones of the large courtyard bear
to-day a black stain where, the curious inquirer will be told, the
caretakers of the empty house have been in the habit of cooking their
bread on a brazier of charcoal fanned into glow with a palm leaf
scattering the ashes. But the true story of the black stain is in reality
quite otherwise. For it was here that the infuriated people burnt the
chapel furniture when the monasteries of Saragossa were sacked.
The Sarrions left their carriage at the corner of the Calle de la Merced,
in the shadow of a tall house, for the sun was already strong at midday
though the snow lay on the hills round Torre Garda. They found the house
closely barred. The dust and the cobwebs were undisturbed on the huge
windows. The house was as empty as it had been these forty years.
Marcos tried the door, which resisted his strength like a wall. It was a
true monastic door with no crack through which even a fly could pass.
"That house stands empty," said an old woman who passed by. "It has stood
empty since I was a girl. It is accursed. They killed the good fathers
there."
Sarrion thanked her and walked on. Marcos was examining the dust on the
road out of the corners of his eyes.
"Two carriages have stopped here," he said, "at this small door which
looks as if it belonged to the next house."
"Ah!" answered Sarrion, "that is an old trick. I have seen doors like
that before. There are several in the Calle San Gregorio. Sitting on my
balcony in the Casa Sarrion I have seen a man go into one house and look
out of the window of the next a minute later."
"Mon has not arrived," said Marcos, with his eye on the road. "He has the
carriage of One-eyed Pedro whose near horse has a circular shoe."
"But we must not wait for him. The risk would be too great. They may
dispense with his presence."
"No," answered Marcos thoughtfully, looking at the smaller door which
seemed to belong to the next house. "We must not wait."
As he spoke a carriage appeared at the farther end of the Calle de la
Merced, which is a straight and narrow street.
"Here they come," he added, and drew his father into a doorway across the
street.
It was indeed the carriage of the man known as One-eyed Pedro, a victim
to the dust of Aragon, and the near horse left a circular mark with its
hind foot on the road.
Evasio Mon descended from the carriage and paid the man, giving, it would
seem, a liberal "propina," for the One-eyed Pedro expectorated on the
coin before putting it into his pocket.
Mon tapped on the door with the stick he always carried. It was instantly
opened to give him admittance, and closed as quickly behind him.
"Ah!" whispered Sarrion, with a smile on his keen face. "I have heard
them knock like that on the doors in the Calle San Gregorio. It is simple
and yet distinctive."
He turned and illustrated the knock on the balustrade of the stairs up
which they had hastened.
"We will try it," he added grimly, "on that door when Evasio has had time
to go away from it."
They waited a few minutes, and then went out again into the Calle de la
Merced. It was the luncheon hour, and they had the street to themselves.
They stood for a moment in the doorway through which Mon had passed.
"Listen," said Marcos in a whisper.
It was the sound of an organ coming almost muffled from the back of the
empty house, and it seemed to travel through long corridors before
reaching them.
"They had," said Sarrion, "so far as I recollect, a large and beautiful
chapel in the patio opposite to that great door, which has probably been
built up on the inside."
Then he gave the peculiar knock on the door. At a gesture from Marcos he
stood back so that he who opened the door would need to open it wide and
almost come out into the street to see who had summoned him.
They heard the door opening, and the head that came round the door was
that of the tall and powerful friar who had come to the assistance of
Francisco de Mogente in the Calle San Gregorio. He drew back at once and
tried to close the door, but both father and son threw their weight
against it and slowly pressed him back, enabling Marcos at length to get
his shoulder in. Both men were somewhat smaller than the friar, but both
were quicker to see an advantage and take it.
In a moment the friar abandoned the attempt and ran down the long
corridor, into which the light filtered dimly through cobwebs. Marcos
gave chase while Sarrion stayed behind to close the door. At the corner
of the corridor the friar slipped, and, finding himself out-matched,
raised his voice to shout. But the cry was smothered by Marcos, who leapt
at him like a cat, and they rolled on the floor together.
The friar was heavier and stronger. He had led a simple and healthy life,
his muscles were toughened by his wanderings and the hardships of his
calling. At first Marcos was underneath, but as Sarrion hurried up he saw
his son come out on the top and heard at the same moment a dull thud. It
was the friar's head against the floor, a Guipuzcoan trick of wrestling
which usually meant death to its victim, but the friar's thick cloak
happened to fall between his head and the hard floor. This alone saved
him; for Marcos was a Spaniard and did not care at that moment whether he
killed the holy man or not. Indeed Sarrion hastily leant down to hold him
back and Marcos rose to his feet with blazing eyes and the blood
trickling from a cut lip. The friar would have killed him if he could;
for the blood that runs in Southern men is soon heated and the primeval
instinct of fight never dies out of the human heart.
"He is not killed," said Marcos breathlessly.
"For which we may thank Heaven," added Sarrion with a short laugh. "Come,
let us find the chapel."
They hurried on through the dimly lighted corridors guided by the sound
of the distant organ. There seemed to be many closed doors between them
and it; for only the deeper and more resonant notes reached their ears.
They gained the large patio where the grass grew thickly, and the
iron-work of the well in the centre was hidden by the trailing ropes of
last year's clematis.
"The chapel is there, but the door is built up," said Sarrion pointing to
a doorway which had been filled in. And they paused for a moment as all
men must pause when they find sudden evidence that that Sword which was
brought into the world nineteen hundred years ago is not yet sheathed.
Marcos had already found a second door leading from the cloister that
surrounded the patio, back in the direction from which they had come.
They entered the corridor which turned sharply back again--the handiwork
of some architect skilful, not in the carrying of sound, but in killing
it.
"It is the way to the organ loft," whispered Marcos.
"It is probably the only entrance to the chapel."
They opened a door and were faced by a second one covered and padded with
faded felt. Marcos pushed it ajar and the notes of the organ almost
deafened them. They were in the chapel, behind the organ, at the west
end.
They passed in and stood in the dark, the notes of the great organ
braying in their ears. They could hear the panting of the man working at
the bellows. Marcos led the way and they passed on into the chapel which
was dimly lighted by candles. The subtle odour of stale incense hung
heavily in the atmosphere which seemed to vibrate as if the deeper notes
of the organ shook the building in their vain search for an exit.
The chapel was long and narrow. Marcos and his father were alone at the
west end, concealed by the font of which the wooden cover rose like a
miniature spire almost to the ceiling. A group of people were kneeling on
the bare floor by the screen which had never been repaired but showed
clearly where the carving had been knocked and torn to make the bonfire
in the patio.
Two priests were on the altar steps while the choristers were dimly
visible through the broken railing of the screen. There seemed to be some
nuns within the screen while others knelt without; four knelt apart, as
if awaiting admission to the inner sanctum.
"That is Juanita," whispered Marcos, pointing with a steady finger. The
girl kneeling next to her was weeping. But Juanita knelt upright, her
face half turned so that they could see her clear-cut profile against the
candle-light beyond. To those who study human nature, every attitude or
gesture is of value; there were energy and courage in the turn of
Juanita's head. She was listening.
Near to her the motionless black form of Sor Teresa towered among the
worshippers. She was looking straight in front of her. Not far away a
bowed figure all curved and cringing with weak emotion--a sight to make
men pause and think--was Leon de Mogente. Behind him, upright with a
sleek bowed head, was Evasio Mon. From his position and in the attitude
in which he knelt, he could without moving see Juanita, and was probably
watching her.
The chapel was carpeted with an old and faded matting of grass such as is
made on all the coasts of the Mediterranean. Marcos and Sarrion went
forward noiselessly. Instinctively they crossed themselves as they neared
the chancel. Evasio Mon was nearest to them kneeling apart, a few paces
behind Leon. He could see every one from this position, but he did not
hear the Sarrions a few yards behind him.
At this moment Juanita turned round and perceiving them gave a little
start which Mon saw. He turned his head to the left; Sarrion was standing
in the semi-darkness at his shoulder. Then he turned to the right and
there was Marcos, motionless, with a handkerchief held to his lips.
Evasio Mon reflected for a moment; then he turned to Sarrion with his
ready smile.
"Do you come here to see me?" he whispered.
"I want you to get Juanita de Mogente away from this as quickly as
possible," returned Sarrion in a whisper. "We need not disturb the
service."
"But, my friend," protested Mon, still smiling, "by what right?"
"That you must ask of Marcos."
Mon turned to Marcos in silent inquiry and he received a wordless answer;
for Marcos held under his eyes in the half light the certificate of
marriage signed by that political bishop who was no Carlist, and was ever
a thorn in the side of the Churchmen striving for an absolute monarchy.
Mon shook his head still smiling, more in sorrow than in anger, at the
misfortune which his duty compelled him to point out.
"It is not legal, my dear Marcos; it is not legal."
He glanced round into Marcos' still face and perceived perhaps that he
might as well try the effect of words upon the stone pillar behind him.
He reflected again for a moment, while the service proceeded and the
voices of the choir rose and fell like the waves of the sea in a deep
cave. It was a simple enough ceremonial denuded of many of the mediaeval
mummeries which have been revived by a newer emotional Church for the
edification of the weak-minded.
Juanita glanced back again and saw Mon kneeling between the two
motionless upright men, who were grave while he smiled ... and smiled.
Then at length he rose to his feet and stood for a moment. If he ever
hesitated in his life it was at that instant. And Marcos' hand came
forward beneath his eyes pointing inexorably at Juanita. There was a
pause in the service, a momentary silence only broken by the smothered
sobs of the novice who knelt next to Juanita.
The organ rolled out its deep voice again, and under cover of the sound
Mon stepped forward and touched Juanita on the shoulder. She turned
instantly, and he beckoned to her to follow him. If the priests at the
altar perceived anything they made no sign. Sor Teresa, absorbed in
prayer, never turned her head. The service went on uninterruptedly.
Sarrion led the way and Mon followed. Juanita glanced at Marcos,
indicated with a nod Evasio Mon's back, and made a gay little grimace,
suggestive of that schemer's discomfiture. Then she followed Mon, and
Marcos came noiselessly behind her.
They passed out through the dark passage behind the organ into the old
cloister.
There Mon turned to look at Juanita and from her to Marcos. He was
distressed for them.
"It is illegal," he repeated, gently. "Without a dispensation."
And by way of reply Marcos handed him a second paper, bearing at its foot
the oval seal of the Vatican. It was the usual dispensation, easy enough
to procure, for the marriage of an orphan under age.
"I am glad," said Mon, and he tried to look it.
Sarrion went on into the narrow corridor. The friar was sitting on a
worm-eaten bench there, leaning back against the wall, his hand over his
eyes.
"He is hurt," explained Marcos, simply. "He tried to stop us."
Mon made no comment but accompanied them to the door, which he closed
behind them, and then returned to the chapel, reflecting perhaps upon how
small an incident the history of nations may turn. For if the friar had
been able to withstand the Sarrions--if there had been a grating to the
small door in the Calle de la Merced--Don Carlos de Borbone might have
worn the three crowns of Spain.