THE CITY OF DISCONTENT
‘En paroles ou en actions, être discret, c’est s’abstenir.’
‘THERE is,’ observed Frederick Conyngham to himself as he climbed into
the saddle in the grey dawn of the following morning, ‘there is a certain
picturesqueness about these proceedings which pleases me.’
Concepçion Vara indeed supplied a portion of this romantic atmosphere,
for he was dressed in the height of contrabandista fashion, with a
bright-coloured handkerchief folded round his head underneath his black
hat, a scarlet waistcloth, a spotless shirt, and a flower in the ribbon
of his hat.
He was dignified and leisurely, but so far forgot himself as to sing as
he threw his leg across his horse. A dark-eyed maiden had come to the
corner of the Calle Vieja, and stood there watching him with mournful
eyes. He waved her a salutation as he passed.
‘It is the waiting-maid at the venta where I stay in Ronda—what will
you?’ he explained to Conyngham with a modest air as he cocked his hat
farther on one side.
The sun rose as they emerged from the narrow streets into the open
country that borders the road to Bobadilla. A pastoral country this,
where the land needs little care to make it give more than man requires
for his daily food. The evergreen oak studded over the whole plain
supplies food for countless pigs and shade where the herdsmen may dream
away the sunny days. The rich soil would yield two or even three crops
in the year, were the necessary seed and labour forthcoming.
Underground, the mineral wealth outvies the richness of the surface, but
national indolence leaves it unexplored.
‘Before General Vincente one could not explain oneself,’ said Concepçion,
urging his horse to keep pace with the trot of Conyngham’s huge mount.
‘Ah!’
‘No,’ pursued Concepçion. ‘And yet it is simple. In Algeciras I have a
wife. It is well that a man should travel at times. So,’ he paused and
bowed towards his companion with a gesture of infinite condescension,
‘so—we take the road together.’
‘As long as you are pleased, Señor Vara,’ said Conyngham, ‘I am sure I
can but feel honoured. You know I have no money.’
The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders.
‘What matter?’ he said. ‘What matter? We can keep an account—a mere
piece of paper—so: “Concepçion Vara, of Algeciras, in account current
with F. Conyngham; Englishman. One month’s wages at one hundred
pesetas.” It is simple.’
‘Very,’ acquiesced Conyngham. ‘It is only when pay-day comes that things
will get complicated.’
Concepçion laughed.
‘You are a caballero after my own heart,’ he said. ‘We shall enjoy
ourselves in Madrid. I see that.’
Conyngham did not answer. He had remembered the letter and Julia
Barenna’s danger. He rose in his stirrups and looked behind him. Ronda
was already hidden by intervening hills, and the bare line of the roadway
was unbroken by the form of any other traveller.
‘We are not going to Madrid yet,’ said Conyngham. ‘We are going to
Xeres, where I have business. Do you know the road to Xeres?’
‘As well that as any other, Excellency.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know no roads north of Ronda. I am of Andalusia, I,’ replied
Concepçion easily, and he looked round about him with an air of interest
which was more to the credit of his intelligence as a traveller than his
reliability as a guide.
‘But you engaged to guide me to Madrid.’
‘Yes, Excellency—by asking the way,’ replied Concepçion with a light
laugh, and he struck a sulphur match on the neck of his horse to light a
fresh cigarette.
Thus with an easy heart Frederick Conyngham set out on his journey,
having for companion one as irresponsible as himself. He had determined
to go to Xeres, though that town of ill repute lay far to the westward of
his road towards the capital. It would have been simple enough to
destroy the letter entrusted to him by Julia Barenna, a stranger whom he
was likely never to see again—simple enough and infinitely safer as he
suspected, for the billet-doux of Mr. Larralde smelt of grimmer things
than love. But Julia Barenna wittingly, or in all innocence, appealed to
that sense of chivalry which is essentially the quality of lonely men who
have never had sisters, and Conyngham was ready to help Julia where he
would have refused his assistance to a man, however hard pressed.
‘Cannot leave the girl in a hole,’ he said to himself, and proceeded to
act upon this resolution with a steadiness of purpose for which some may
blame him.
It was evening when the two travellers reached Xeres after some weary
hours of monotonous progress through the vine-clad plains of this
country.
‘It is no wonder,’ said Concepçion, ‘that the men of Xeres are
malcontents, when they live in a country as flat as the palm of my hand.’
It happened to be a fête day, which in Spain, as in other countries
farther North, is synonymous with mischief. The men of Xeres had taken
advantage of this holiday to demonstrate their desire for more. They had
marched through the streets with banner and song, arrayed in their best
clothes, fostering their worst thoughts. They had consumed marvellous
quantities of that small Amontillado which is as it were a thin fire to
the blood, heating and degenerating at once. They had talked much
nonsense and listened to more. Carlist or Christino—it was all the same
to them, so long as they had a change of some sort. In the meantime they
had a desire to break something, if only to assert their liberty.
A few minutes before Conyngham and his guide rode into the market-place,
which in Xeres is as long as a street, some of the free sons of Spain had
thought fit to shout insulting remarks to a passer-by. With a fire too
bright for his years this old gentleman, with fierce white moustache and
imperial, had turned on them, calling them good-for-nothings and sons of
pigs.
Conyngham rode up just in time to see the ruffians rise as one man and
rush at the victim of their humour. The old man with his back to the
wall repelled his assailants with a sort of fierce joy in his attitude
which betokened the soldier.
‘Come on, Concepçion!’ cried Conyngham, with a dig of the spurs that made
his tired horse leap into the air. He charged down upon the gathering
crowd, which scattered right and left before the wild onslaught. But he
saw the flash of steel, and knew that it was too late. The old man, with
an oath and a gasp of pain, sank against the wall with the blood
trickling through the fingers clasped against his breast. Conyngham
would have reined in, but Concepçion on his heels gave the charger a cut
with his heavy whip that made him bound forward and would have unseated a
short-stirruped rider.
‘Go on,’ cried the Spaniard; ‘it is no business of ours. The police are
behind.’
And Conyngham, remembering the letter in his pocket, rode on without
looking back. In the day of which the present narrative treats, the
streets of Xeres were but ill paved, and the dust lay on them to the
depth of many inches, serving to deaden the sound of footsteps and
facilitate the commission of such deeds of violence as were at this time
of daily occurrence in Spain. Riding on at random, Conyngham and his
companion soon lost their way in the narrow streets, and were able to
satisfy themselves that none had followed them. Here in a quiet alley
Conyngham read again the address of the letter of which he earnestly
desired to rid himself without more ado.
It was addressed to Colonel Monreal at No. 84 Plaza de Cadiz.
‘Let his Excellency stay here and drink a glass of wine at this venta,’
said Concepçion. ‘Alone, I shall be able to get information without
attracting attention. And then, in the name of the saints, let us shake
the dust of Xeres off our feet. The first thing we see is steel, and I
do not like it. I have a wife in Algeciras to whom I am much attached,
and I am afraid—yes, afraid. A gentleman need never hesitate to say so.’
He shook his head forebodingly as he loosened his girths and called for
water for the horses.
‘I could eat a cocida,’ he went on, sniffing the odours of a neighbouring
kitchen, ‘with plenty of onions and the mutton as becomes the
springtime—young and tender. Dios! this quick travelling and an empty
stomach, it kills one.’
‘When I have delivered my letter,’ replied Conyngham, ‘we shall eat with
a lighter heart.’
Concepçion went away in a pessimistic humour. He was one of those men
who are brave enough on good wine and victuals, but lack the stamina to
fight when hungry. He returned presently with the required information.
The Plaza de Cadiz was, it appeared, quite close. Indeed, the town of
Xeres is not large, though the intricacies of its narrow streets may well
puzzle a new-comer. No. 84 was the house of the barber, and on his first
floor lived Colonel Monreal, a retired veteran who had fought with the
English against Napoleon’s armies.
During his servant’s absence, Conyngham had written a short note in
French, conveying, in terms which she would understand, the news that
Julia Barenna doubtless awaited with impatience; namely, that her letter
had been delivered to him whose address it bore.
‘I have ordered your cocida and some good wine,’ he said to Concepçion.
‘Your horse is feeding. Make good use of your time, for when I return I
shall want you to take the road again at once. You must make ten miles
before you sleep to-night, and then an early start in the morning.’
‘For where, señor?’
‘For Ronda.’
Concepçion shrugged his shoulders. His life had been spent upon the
road, his wardrobe since childhood had been contained in a saddle-bag,
and Spaniards, above all people, have the curse of Ishmael. They are a
homeless race, and lay them down to sleep, when fatigue overtakes them,
under a tree or in the shade of a stone wall. It often happens that a
worker in the fields will content himself with the lee side of a haystack
for his resting-place when his home is only a few hundred yards up the
mountain side.
‘And his Excellency?’ inquired Concepçion.
‘I shall sleep here to-night and proceed to Madrid to-morrow, by way of
Cordova, where I will wait for you. I have a letter here which you must
deliver to the Señorita Barenna at Ronda without the knowledge of anyone.
It will be well that neither General Vincente nor any other who knows you
should catch sight of you in the streets of Ronda.’
Concepçion nodded his head with much philosophy.
‘Ah! these women,’ he said, turning to the steaming dish of mutton and
vegetables which is almost universal in the South, ‘these women, what
shoe leather they cost us!’
Leaving his servant thus profitably employed, Conyngham set out to find
the barber’s shop in the Plaza de Cadiz. This he did without difficulty,
but on presenting himself at the door of Colonel Monreal’s apartment
learnt that that gentleman was out.
‘But,’ added the servant, ‘the Colonel is a man of regular habits. He
will return within the next fifteen minutes, for he dines at five.’
Conyngham paused. He had no desire to make Colonel Monreal’s
acquaintance, indeed preferred to remain without it, for he rightly
judged that Señor Larralde was engaged in affairs best left alone.
‘I have a letter for the Colonel,’ he said to the servant, a man of
stupid countenance. ‘I will place it here upon his table, and can no
doubt trust you to see that he gets it.’
‘That you can, Excellency,’ replied the man, with a palm already half
extended to receive a gratuity.
‘If the Colonel fails to receive the letter I shall certainly know of
it,’ said Conyngham, stumbling down the dark staircase, and well pleased
to have accomplished his mission.
He returned with all speed to the inn in the quiet alley where he had
elected to pass the night, and found Concepçion still at table.
‘In half an hour I take the road,’ said the Spaniard. ‘The time for a
cup of coffee, and I am ready to ride all night.’
Having eaten, Concepçion was in a better frame of mind, and now
cheerfully undertook to carry out his master’s instructions. In little
more than half an hour he was in the saddle again, and waved an airy
adieu to Conyngham as he passed under the swinging oil lamp that hung at
the corner of the street.
It was yet early in the evening, and Conyngham, having dined, set out to
explore the streets of Xeres, which were quiet enough now, as the cafes
were gayer and safer than the gloomy thoroughfares where a foe might lurk
in every doorway. In the market-place, between rows of booths and tents,
a dense crowd walked backwards and forwards with that steady sense of
promenading which the Spaniard understands above all other men. The
dealers in coloured handkerchiefs from Barcelona or mantillas from
Seville were driving a great trade, and the majority of them had long
since shouted themselves hoarse. A few quack dentists were operating
upon their victims under the friendly covert of a big drum and a bassoon.
Dealers in wonderful drugs and herbs were haranguing the crowd, easily
gaining the attention of the simple peasants by handling a live snake or
a crocodile which they allowed to crawl upon their shoulders.
Conyngham lingered in the crowd, which was orderly enough, and amused
himself by noting the credulity of the country folk, until his attention
was attracted by a solemn procession passing up the market-place behind
the tents. He inquired of a bystander what this might be.
‘It is the police carrying to his apartment the body of Colonel Monreal,
who was murdered this afternoon in the Plaza Mayor,’ was the answer.
Conyngham made his way between two tents to the deserted side of the
market-place, and, running past the procession, reached the barber’s shop
before it. In answer to his summons a girl came to the door of the
Colonel’s apartment. She was weeping and moaning in great mental
distress.
Without explanation Conyngham pushed past her into the room where he had
deposited the letter. The room was in disorder, and no letter lay upon
the table.
‘It is,’ sobbed the girl, ‘my husband, who, having heard that the good
Colonel had been murdered, stole all his valuables and papers and has run
away from me.’