"Don't have any fears, my friend Don Leandro; the police have come in
here already several times; but they did not see fit to lay their hands
on any one: if they should, the affair is now so well matured it would
be the signal for the eruption to break out."
"What eruption?"
"The revolution, man alive!"
"_Santo Cristo!_ Do you know, Senor Marroquin, these things are very
serious, very serious! If you will not take it in bad part, I should
like to be going.... Anyway, I have something that I must be doing...."
Marroquin took him by the arm, and compelled him to sit down again.
"Don't you have any apprehension, my dear friend! Nothing can happen to
you, at any rate, because you do not, like me, figure in all the lists
which the police have been sending to the authorities."
"No matter; if it does not make any difference to you, we will change
the subject."
The subject was changed, indeed, but the topic which followed was still
more terrible and demoniacal.
They talked of nothing else than the queen, and any one can imagine what
could have been said of that august lady,--that she was going to lose
her crown and go into exile.
The moment the professor heard these atrocious remarks, he grew livid,
and it was impossible to keep him longer; he left without saying good
by, and directed his steps toward his college, which he reached in a
breathless condition....
The poor man had the innocence to relate this episode to the mayordomo,
who lost no time in reporting it to the director.
Unlucky Don Leandro! For many days he had to endure the chaplain's
grievous and coarse mockery.... What troubled him most was, that before
the scholars he called him conspirator, in that sarcastic tone affected
by the cure in such cases. At other times he nicknamed him the "Venetian
conspirator," which made the boys laugh, and as Don Leandro said, very
truly, "The dignity of the professorship was undermined."
The labors of our friend Mendoza, otherwise Brutandor, in behalf of the
revolutionary cause, were employed in a higher circle than those of
Marroquin, Merelo, and the other small fry of the liberal school. He had
disappeared for the time being, as we already know, and in Spain the
fact of a person disappearing is something that gives infinite
importance, and often imperishable glory. For, indeed, when a man
disappears, the public rightly presume that it must be for working out
in secret great and noteworthy undertakings. Those of Mendoza, although
we know not what they were, must have been portentous, if what was said
was true, since they obliged him to remain concealed in Madrid more than
three months, changing his concealment and his disguise any number of
times. Miguel had known something of his life and perils, but at last he
lost track of him.
This was the state of affairs, when one evening, after dinner, while
Rivera was sitting in the library with Maximina on his knee, there was a
tremendous ring at the door-bell.
The young woman was on her feet in a second.
"Who can that be at this time o' day?" queried Miguel. "Has either of
the girls gone out?"
"I think not."
Just then Juana came in.
"Senorito, it is a waiter from the cafe wants to speak with you."
"A waiter from the cafe? I don't remember that I have any account
anywhere.... Tell him to come in."
"Wait! wait!" exclaimed Maximina; "let me get out by this door!"
And she ran out by the parlor door, as was always her custom, when any
of Rivera's visitors came.
At that instant the waiter appeared, and Miguel could scarcely recognize
under his disguise his friend Mendoza.
"Perico!"
"Shhhhhhhhh!" exclaimed Mendoza, putting on an expression of terrible
fear.
And he hastened to bolt the door.
"What is up?" asked Miguel, affecting great anxiety.