IN TOLEDO
‘Meddle not with many matters; for if thou meddle much thou shalt not
be innocent.’
THE Café of the Ambassadeurs in the Calle de la Montera was at this time
the fashionable resort of visitors to the city of Madrid. Its tone was
neither political nor urban, but savoured rather of the cosmopolitan.
The waiters at the first-class hotels recommended the Café of the
Ambassadeurs, and stepped round to the manager’s office at the time of
the New Year to mention the fact.
Sir John Pleydell had been rather nonplussed by his encounter with
Conyngham, and, being a man of the world as well as a lawyer, sat down,
as it were, to think. He had come to Spain in the first heat of a great
revenge, and such men as he take, like the greater volcanoes, a long time
to cool down. He had been prepossessed in the favour of the man who
subsequently owned to being Frederick Conyngham. And the very manner in
which this admission was made redounded in some degree to the honour of
the young Englishman. Here, at least, was one who had no fear, and
fearlessness appeals to the heart of every Briton from the peer to the
navvy.
Sir John took a certain cold interest in his surroundings, and in due
course was recommended to spend an evening at the Café des Ambassadeurs,
as it styled itself, for the habit of preferring French to Spanish
designations for places of refreshment had come in since the great
revolution. Sir John went, therefore, to the café, and with
characteristic scorn of elemental disturbance chose to resort thither on
the evening of the great gale. The few other occupants of the gorgeous
room eyed his half-bottle of claret with a grave and decorous wonder, but
made no attempt to converse with this chill-looking Englishman. At
length, about ten o’clock or a few minutes later, entered one who bowed
to Sir John with an air full of affable promise. This was Larralde, who
called a waiter and bade him fetch a coat-brush.
‘Would you believe it, sir?’ he said, addressing Sir John in broken
English, ‘but I have just escaped a terrible death.’
He shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands, and laughed
good-humouredly, after the manner of one who has no foes.
‘The fall of a chimney—so—within a metre of my shoulder.’ He threw back
his cloak with a graceful swing of the arm and handed it to the waiter.
Then he drew forward a chair to the table occupied by Sir John, who
sipped his claret and bowed coldly.
‘You must not think that Madrid is always like this,’ said Larralde.
‘But perhaps you know the city—’
‘No—this is my first visit.’
Larralde turned aside to give his order to the waiter. His movements
were always picturesque, and in the presence of Englishmen he had a habit
of accentuating those characteristics of speech and manner which are held
by our countrymen to be native to the Peninsula. There is nothing so
disarming as conventionality—and nothing less suspicious. Larralde
seemed ever to be a typical Spaniard—indolently polite, gravely
indifferent—a cigarette-smoking nonentity.
They talked of topics of the day, and chiefly of that great event, the
hurricane, which was still raging. Larralde, whose habit it was to turn
his neighbour to account—a seed of greatness this!—had almost concluded
that the Englishman was useless when the conversation turned, as it was
almost bound to turn between these two, upon Conyngham.
‘There are but few of your countrymen in Madrid at the moment,’ Larralde
had said.
‘I know but one,’ was the guarded reply.
‘And I also,’ said Larralde, flicking the ash from his cigarette. ‘A
young fellow who has made himself somewhat notorious in the Royalist
cause—a cause in which I admit I have no sympathy. His name is
Conyngham.’
Then a silence fell upon the two men, and over raised glasses they
glanced surreptitiously at each other.
‘I know him,’ said Sir John at length, and the tone of his voice made
Larralde glance up with a sudden gleam in his eyes. There thus sprang
into existence between them the closest of all bonds—a common foe.
‘The man has done me more than one ill-turn,’ said Larralde after a
pause, and he drummed on the table with his cigarette-stained fingers.
Sir John, looking at him, coldly gauged the Spaniard with the deadly
skill of his calling. He noted that Larralde was poor and
ambitious—qualities that often raise the devil in a human heart when fate
brings them there together. He was not deceived by the picturesque
manner of Julia’s lover, but knew exactly how much was assumed of that
air of simple vanity to which Larralde usually treated strangers. He
probably gauged at one glance the depth of the man’s power for good or
ill, his sincerity, his possible usefulness. In the hands of Sir John
Pleydell, Larralde was the merest tool.
They sat until long after midnight, and before they parted Sir John
Pleydell handed to his companion a roll of notes, which he counted
carefully and Larralde accepted with a grand air of condescension and
indifference.
‘You know my address,’ said Sir John, with a slight suggestion of
masterfulness which had not been noticeable before the money changed
hands. ‘I shall remain at the same hotel.’
Larralde nodded his head.
‘I shall remember it,’ he said. ‘And now I go to take a few hours’ rest.
I have had a hard day, and am as tired as a shepherd’s dog.’
And indeed the day had been busy enough. Señor Larralde hummed an air
between his teeth as he struggled against the fierce wind.
Before dawn the gale subsided, and daylight broke with a clear, calm
freshness over the city, where sleep had been almost unknown during the
night. The sun had not yet risen when Larralde took the road on his
poor, thin black horse. He rode through the streets, still littered with
the _débris_ of fallen chimneys, slates, and shutters, with his head up
and his mind so full of the great schemes which gave him no rest, that he
never saw Concepçion Vara going to market with a basket on his arm and a
cigarette, unlighted, between his lips. Concepçion turned and watched
the horseman, shrugged his shoulders, and quietly followed until the
streets were left behind and there could no longer be any doubt that
Larralde was bound for Toledo.
Thither, indeed, he journeyed throughout the day with a leisureliness
begotten of the desire to enter the ancient city after nightfall only.
Toledo was at this time the smouldering hotbed of those political
intrigues which some years later burst into flame, and resulted finally
in the expulsion of the Bourbons from the throne of Spain. Larralde was
sufficiently dangerous to require watching, and, like many of his kind,
considered himself of a greater importance than his enemies were pleased
to attach to him. The city of Toledo is, as many know, almost surrounded
by the rapid Tagus, and entrance to its narrow confine is only to be
gained by two gates. To pass either of these barriers in open day would
be to court a publicity singularly undesirable at this time, for Esteban
Larralde was slipping down the social slope, which gradual progress is
the hardest to arrest. If one is mounting there are plenty to help
him—those from above seeking to make unto themselves friends of the
mammon of unrighteousness; those from below hoping to tread in the
footsteps he may leave. Each step, however, of the upward progress has
to be gained at the expense of another. But on the descent there are
none to stay and many to push behind, while those in front make room
readily enough. Larralde had for the first time accepted a direct
monetary reward for his services. That this had been offered and
accepted in a polite Spanish manner as an advance of expenses to be
incurred was, of course, only natural under the circumstances, but the
fact remained that Esteban Larralde was no longer a picturesque
conspirator, serving a failing cause with that devotion which can only be
repaid later by high honours, and a post carrying with it emoluments of
proportionate value. He had, in fact, been paid in advance; which is the
surest sign of distrust upon one side or the other.
The Barennas had been established at their house in Toledo some weeks,
and, for Julia, life had been dull enough. She had hastened northward,
knowing well that her lover’s intrigues must necessarily bring him to the
neighbourhood of the capital—perhaps to Toledo itself. Larralde had,
however, hitherto failed to come near her, and the news of the day
reported an increasing depression in the ranks of the Carlists. Indeed,
that cause seemed now at such a low ebb that the franker mercenaries were
daily drifting away to more promising scenes of warfare, while some
cynically accepted commissions in the army of Espartero.
‘I always said that Don Carlos would fail if he employed such
men—as—well, as he does,’ Madame Barenna took more than one opportunity
of observing at this time, and her emphatic fan rapped the personal
application home.
She had just made this remark for perhaps the sixth time one evening when
the door of the patio where she and Julia sat was thrown open, and
Larralde—the person indirectly referred to—came towards the ladies. He
was not afraid of Madame Barenna, and his tired face lightened visibly at
the sight of Julia. Concha was right. According to his lights Larralde
loved Julia. She, who knew every expression, noted the look in his face,
and her heart leapt within her breast. She had long secretly rejoiced
over the failure of the Carlist cause. Such, messieurs, is the ambition
of a woman for the man she really loves.
Señora Barenna rose and held out her hand with a beaming smile. She was
rather bored that evening, and it was pleasant to imagine herself in the
midst of great political intrigues.
‘We were wondering if you would come,’ she said.
‘I am here—there—everywhere—but I always come back to the Casa Barenna,’
he said gallantly.
‘You look tired,’ said Julia quietly. ‘Where are you from?’
‘At the moment I am from Madrid. The city has been wrecked by a
tornado—I myself almost perished.’
He paused, shrugged his shoulders.
‘What will you?’ he added carelessly. ‘What is life—a single life—in
Spain to-day?’
Julia winced. It is marvellous how an intelligent woman may blind
herself into absolute belief in one man. Señora Barenna shuddered.
‘Blessed Heaven!’ she whispered. ‘Why does not someone do something?’
‘One does one’s best,’ answered Larralde, with his hand at his moustache.
‘But yes!’ said Madame eagerly. She had a shrewd common sense, as many
apparently foolish women have, and probably put the right value on Señor
Larralde’s endeavours. Father Concha and the General were, however, far
away, and all women are time-servers.
Larralde spoke of general news, and when he at length proposed to Julia
that they should take a ‘paseo’ in the garden the elder lady made no
objection. For some moments Julia was quite happy. She had schooled
herself into a sort of contentment in the hope that her turn would come
when ambition failed. Perhaps this moment had arrived. At all events,
Larralde acquitted himself well, and seemed sincere enough in his joy at
seeing her again.
‘Do you love me?’ he asked suddenly.
Julia gave a little laugh. Heaven has been opened by such a laugh ere
now, and men have seen for a moment the brightness of it.
‘Enough to leave Spain for ever and live in another country?’
‘Yes.’
‘Enough to risk something now for my sake?’
‘Enough to risk everything,’ she answered.
‘I have tried to gain a great position for you,’ went on Larralde, ‘and
fortune has been against me. I have failed. The Carlist cause is dead,
Julia. Our chief has failed us—that is the truth of it. We set him up
as a king, but unless we hold him upright he falls. He is a man of
straw. We are making one last effort, as you know, but it is a dangerous
one, and we have had misfortunes. This pestilential Englishman! No one
may say how much he knows. He has had the letter too long in his
possession for our safety. But I have outwitted him this time.’
Larralde paused, and drew from his pocket the letter in the pink
envelope—somewhat soiled by its passage through the hands of Colonel
Monreal’s servant.
‘It requires two more signatures and will then be complete,’ said the
upholder of Don Carlos. ‘We shall then make our “coup,” but we cannot
move while Conyngham remains in Spain. It would never do for me to—well,
to get shot at this moment.’
Julia breathed hard.
‘And that is what Mr. Conyngham is endeavouring to bring about. In the
first place he wants this letter to show to Estella Vincente—some foolish
romance. In the second place he hates me, and seeks promotion in the
Royalist ranks. These Englishmen are unscrupulous. He tried to take my
life—only last night. I bear him no ill-feeling. _A la guerre comme à
la guerre_. My only intention is to get him quietly out of Spain. It
can be managed easily enough. Will you help me—to save my own life?’
‘Yes,’ answered Julia.
‘I want you to write a letter to Conyngham saying that you are tired of
political intrigue.’
‘Heaven knows that would be true enough,’ put in Julia.
‘And that you will give him the letter he desires on the condition that
he promises to show it to no one but Estella Vincente and return it to
you. That you will also swear that it is the identical letter that he
handed to you in the General’s garden at Ronda. If Conyngham agrees, he
must meet you at the back of the Church of Santo Tome in the Calle Pedro
Martir here, in Toledo, next Monday evening at seven o’clock. Will you
write this letter, Julia?’
‘And Estella Vincente?’ inquired Julia.
‘She will forget him in a week,’ laughed Larralde.