LARRALDE’S PRICE
‘It is as difficult to be entirely bad as it is to be entirely good.’
TO those who say that there is no Faith, Spain is in itself a palpable
answer. No country in the world can show such cathedrals as those of
Granada, Cordova, Seville, Toledo, Burgos. In any other land any one of
these great structures would suffice. But in Spain these huge monuments
to that Faith which has held serenely through war and fashion, through
thought and thoughtlessness, are to be found in all the great cities.
And the queen of them all is Toledo.
Father Concha, that sour-visaged philosopher, had a queer pride in his
profession and in the history of that Church which is to-day seen in its
purest form in the Peninsula, while it is so entangled with the national
story of Spain that the two are but one tale told from a different point
of view. As a private soldier may take pleasure in standing on a great
battlefield noting each spot of interest—here a valley of death, there
the scene of a cavalry charge of which the thunder will echo down through
all the ages—so Concha, a mere country priest, liked to pace the aisles
of a great cathedral, indulging the while in a half-cynical pride. He
was no great general, no leader, of no importance in the ranks. But he
was of the army, and partook in a minute degree in those victories that
belonged to the past. It was his habit thus to pay a visit to Toledo
Cathedral whensoever his journeys led him to Castile. It was, moreover,
his simple custom to attend the early mass which is here historical; and,
indeed, to walk through the church, grey and cool, with the hush that
seems to belong only to buildings of stupendous age, is in itself a
religious service.
Concha was passing across the nave, hat in hand, a gaunt, ill-clad, and
somewhat pathetic figure, when he caught sight of Sir John Pleydell. The
Englishman paused involuntarily and looked at the Spaniard. Concha
bowed.
‘We met,’ he said, ‘for a moment in the garden of General Vincente’s
house at Ronda.’
‘True,’ answered Sir John. ‘Are you leaving the Cathedral? We might
walk a little way together. One cannot talk idly—here.’
He paused and looked up at the great oak screen—at the towering masonry.
‘No,’ answered Concha gravely. ‘One cannot talk idly here.’
Concha held back the great leathern _portière_, and the Englishman passed
out.
‘This is a queer country, and you are a queer people,’ he said presently.
‘When I was at Ronda I met a certain number of persons—I can count them
on my fingers. General Vincente, his daughter, Señora Barenna, Señorita
Barenna, the Englishman Conyngham, yourself, Señor Concha. I arrived in
Toledo yesterday morning; in twenty-four hours I have caught sight of all
the persons mentioned, here in Toledo.’
‘And here, in Toledo, is another of whom you have not caught sight,’ said
Concha.
‘Ah?’
‘Yes; Señor Larralde.’
‘Is he here?’
‘Yes,’ said Concha.
They walked on in silence for some minutes.
‘What are we all doing here, Padre?’ inquired Sir John, with his cold
laugh.
‘What are you doing here, señor?’
Sir John did not answer at once. They were walking leisurely. The
streets were deserted, as indeed the streets of Toledo usually are.
‘I am putting two and two together,’ the great lawyer answered at length.
‘I began doing so in idleness, and now I have become interested.’
‘Ah!’
‘Yes. I have become interested. They say, Padre, that a pebble set in
motion at the summit of a mountain may gather other pebbles and increase
in bulk and speed until, in the form of an avalanche, it overwhelms a
city in the valley.’
‘Yes, señor.’
‘And I have conceived the strange fancy that Frederick Conyngham, when he
first came to this country, set such a pebble in motion at the summit of
a very high mountain. It has been falling and falling silently ever
since, and it is gaining in bulk. And you, and General Vincente, and
Estella Vincente, and Señorita Barenna, and Frederick Conyngham, and in a
minor degree myself, are on the slope in the track of the avalanche, and
are sliding down behind it. And the General and Estella, and yourself
and Conyngham, are trying to overtake it and stop it. And, reverendo, in
the valley below is the monarchy of Spain—the Bourbon cause.’
Father Concha, remembering his favourite maxim that no flies enter a shut
mouth, was silent.
‘The pebble was a letter,’ said Sir John.
‘And Larralde has it,’ he added after a pause. ‘And that is why you are
all in Toledo—why the air is thick with apprehension, and why all Spain
seems to pause and wait breathlessly. Will the avalanche be stopped, or
will it not? Will the Bourbons—than whom history has known no more
interesting and more unsatisfactory race, except our own Stuarts—will the
Bourbons fall, Señor Padre?’
‘Ah!’ said Concha, whose furrowed face and pessimistic glance betrayed
nothing. ‘Ah!’
‘You will not tell me, of course. You know much that you will not tell
me, and I merely ask you from curiosity. You perhaps know one thing, and
that I wish to learn from you—not out of curiosity, but because I, too,
would fain overtake the avalanche and stop it. I am no politician,
señor, though of course I have my views. When a man has reached my age,
he knows assuredly that politics merely mean self-aggrandisement, and
nothing else. No—the Bourbons may fall; Spain may follow the lead of
France and make an exhibition of herself before the world as a Republic.
I am indifferent to these events. But I wish to do Frederick Conyngham a
good turn, and I ask you to tell me where I shall find Larralde—you who
know everything, Señor Padre.’
Concha reflected while they walked along on the shady side of the narrow
street. It happened to be the street where the saddlers live, and the
sharp sound of their little hammers on leather and wood came from almost
every darkened doorway. The Padre had a wholesome fear of Esteban
Larralde, and an exaggerated estimation of that schemer’s ability. He
was a humble-minded old man, and ever hesitated to pit his own brain
against that of another. He knew that Sir John was a cleverer man than
Larralde, deeper versed in that side of human nature where the seams are
and the knots and the unsightly stitches; older, more experienced, and
probably no more scrupulous.
‘Yes,’ said the priest, ‘I can tell you that. Larralde lodges in the
house of a malcontent, one Lamberto, a scribbling journalist, who is hurt
because the world takes him at its own valuation and not at his. The
house is next to the little synagogue in the Calle de Madrid, a small
stationer’s shop, where one may buy the curse of this generation—pens and
paper.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sir John, civilly and simply. This man has no doubt
been ill-painted, but some may have seen that with different companions
he wore a different manner. He was, as all successful men are, an
unconscious actor, and in entering into the personality of the companion
of the moment he completely sank his own. He never sought to be all
things to all men, and yet he came near to the accomplishment of that
hard task. Sir John was not a sympathetic man; he merely mistook life
for a court of justice, and arraigned all human nature in the
witness-box, with the inward conviction that this should by rights be
exchanged for the felon’s dock.
With Concha he was as simple, as direct, and as unsophisticated as the
old priest himself, and now took his leave without attempting to disguise
the fact that he had accomplished a foreset purpose.
Without difficulty he found the small stationer’s shop next to the
synagogue in the Calle de Madrid, and bade the stationer—a spectacled
individual with upright hair and the air of seeking something in the
world which is not usually behind a counter—take his card to Señor
Larralde. At first the stationer pretended ignorance of the name, but on
discovering that Sir John had not sufficient Spanish to conduct a
conversation of intrigue, disappeared into a back room, whence emanated a
villanous smell of cooking.
While Sir John waited in the little shop, Father Concha walked to the
Plazuela de l’Iglesia Vieja, which small square, overhanging the Tagus
and within reach of its murmuring voice, is deserted except at midday,
when the boys play at bull-fighting and a few workmen engage in a grave
game of bowls. Concha sat, book in hand, opened honestly at the office
of the day and hour, and read no word. Instead, he stared across the
gorge at the brown bank of land which commands the city and renders it
useless as a fortress in the days of modern artillery. He sat and stared
grimly, and thought perhaps of those secret springs within the human
heart that make one man successful and unhappy, while another, possessing
brains and ability and energy, fails in life, yet is perhaps the happier
of the two. For it had happened to Father Concha, as it may happen to
writer and reader at any moment, to meet one who in individuality bears a
resemblance to that self which we never know and yet are ever conscious
of.
Sir John Pleydell, a few hundred yards away, obeyed the shopman’s
invitation to step upstairs with something approaching alacrity.
Larralde was seated at a table strewn with newspapers and soiled by
cigarette ash. He had the unkempt and pallid look of one who has not
seen the sun or breathed fresh air for days. For, as Concepçion had
said, this was a conspirator who preferred to lurk in friendly shelter
while others played the bolder game at the front. Larralde had, in fact,
not stirred abroad for nearly a week.
‘Well, señor,’ he said, with a false air of bravado. ‘How fares it with
your little undertaking?’
‘That,’ replied Sir John, ‘is past—and paid for. And I have another
matter for your consideration. Conyngham is not, after all, the man I
seek.’
Sir John’s manner had changed. He spoke as one having authority. And
Larralde shrugged his shoulders, remembering a past payment.
‘Ah!’ he said, rolling a cigarette with a fine air of indifference.
‘On the one hand,’ continued Sir John judicially, ‘I come to make you an
offer which can only be beneficial to you; on the other hand, Señor
Larralde, I know enough to make things particularly unpleasant for you.’
Larralde raised his eyebrows and sought the matchbox. His thoughts
seemed to amuse him.
‘I have reason to assume that a certain letter is now in your possession
again. I do not know the contents of this letter, and I cannot say that
I am at all interested in it. But a friend of mine is particularly
anxious to have possession of it for a short space of time. I have,
unasked, taken upon myself the office of intermediary.’
Larralde’s eyes flashed through the smoke.
‘You are about to offer me money; be careful, señor,’ he said hotly, and
Sir John smiled.
‘Be careful, that it is enough,’ he suggested. ‘Keep your grand airs for
your fellows, Señor Larralde. Yes, I am about to offer you two hundred
pounds—say three thousand pesetas—for the loan of that letter for a few
hours only. I will guarantee that it is read by one person only, and
that a lady. This lady will probably glance at the first lines, merely
to satisfy herself as to the nature of its contents. Three thousand
pesetas will enable you to escape to Cuba if your schemes fail. If you
succeed, three thousand pesetas will always be of use, even to a member
of a Republican Government.’
Larralde reflected. He had lately realised the fact that the Carlist
cause was doomed. There is a time in the schemes of men, and it usually
comes just before the crisis, when the stoutest heart hesitates and the
most reckless conspirator thinks of his retreat. Esteban Larralde had
begun to think of Cuba during the last few days, and the mention of that
haven for Spanish failures almost unnerved him.
‘In a week,’ suggested Sir John again, ‘it may be—well—settled one way or
the other.’
Larralde glanced at him sharply. This Englishman was either
well-informed or very cunning. He seemed to have read the thought in
Larralde’s mind.
‘No doubt,’ went on the Englishman, ‘you have divined for whom I want the
letter and who will read it. We have both mistaken our man. We both owe
Conyngham a good turn—I, in reparation, you, in gratitude; for he
undoubtedly saved the Señorita Barenna from imprisonment for life.’
Larralde shrugged his shoulders.
‘Each man,’ he said, ‘must fight for himself.’
‘And the majority of us for a woman as well,’ amended Sir John. ‘At
least, in Spain, chivalry is not dead.’
Larralde laughed. He was vain, and Sir John knew it. He had a keen
sight for the breach in his opponent’s armour.
‘You have put your case well,’ said the Spaniard patronisingly, ‘and I do
not see why, at the end of a week, I should not agree to your proposal.
It is, as you say, for the sake of a woman.’
‘Precisely.’
Larralde leant back in his chair, remembering the legendary gallantry of
his race, and wearing an appropriate expression.
‘For a woman,’ he repeated with an eloquent gesture.
‘Precisely.’
‘Then I will do it, señor. I will do it.’
‘For two hundred pounds?’ inquired Sir John coldly.
‘As you will,’ answered the Spaniard, with a noble indifference to such
sordid matters.