"You will excuse a little delay, monsieur le colonel. The letter from
Monsieur le Marechal Lannes is somewhat--indeed I may say very--unusual.
We must assure ourselves that everything is en regle--a mere formality,
but in official business we live by rule and regulation. Monsieur will
understand."
The lieutenant-general in command of the port of Bayonne leaned back in
his chair and smiled deprecatingly, at the same time eying his visitor
with no little keenness. The stranger was a Spanish officer in the
French service, and as such to be distrusted; and although his manner
lacked nothing in ease and assurance, there was something in his bearing
and expression that added to the Frenchman's instinctive suspicion. But
from motives of prudence he forbore to explain that he was detaining his
visitor until an aide-de-camp had ransacked the archives for an
undoubted autograph of Marshal Lannes with which the letter brought by
the Spaniard could be compared. For nearly half an hour the two chatted
on indifferent subjects, the Spaniard growing more and more impatient,
the Frenchman more and more apologetic. At last the aide-de-camp
entered, and handed a document to the general, which the latter keenly
scrutinized.
"I am glad to say, monsieur," he said, rising, "that I find his
excellency's letter perfectly in order. I am delighted to make the
acquaintance of one who, as the marshal informs me, has done good
service to the emperor and to France, and, let us hope, to Spain.
Captain Broussier will see that you are granted the most complete
facilities for a private interview with the man Jose Pinzon. I
understand that he is at present delirious--fever, monsieur, carries off
too many of our prisoners,--but he has lucid intervals. For any service
I may be able to render you, command me."
Captain Broussier led the way from the general's quarters near the Place
d'Armes, across the St. Esprit bridge that spanned the Adour, to the
grim citadel in which some hundreds of prisoners, Spanish, Portuguese,
and English, were immured. Passing under the massive archway, they
entered the great courtyard in which the unhappy captives were allowed
to take exercise; some were sitting, the picture of dejection; others
maintaining the semblance of cheerfulness; many endeavouring to add, by
basket-weaving and similar light occupations possible within prison
walls, to the wretched subsistence allowance doled out to French
prisoners of war. A group of Spaniards, looking up as the two officers
passed through the courtyard, caught sight of the afrancesado, and as
they did so their attitude underwent an instant and extraordinary
change. Listlessness gave place to the most intense interest; every man
showed, each in his own way, the most passionate hatred of the
new-comer. But for the presence of the two French sentries in the
courtyard, and half a dozen more in the guard-house beyond the gate,
they would have thrown themselves upon him as he passed. He caught the
look of murder in their eyes and paled visibly, shrinking as if for
protection closer to his companion, who noted the action and its cause,
and smiled questioningly.
"Some men of--the opposite party--in Saragossa. Misguided, but
dangerous; they bear me no good-will."
"If appearances go for anything, monsieur, those basket knives of theirs
would have some pretty work to do but for the bayonets of our men
yonder."
The Spaniard winced. He was clearly relieved when they passed from the
courtyard into a long corridor leading to the room used as a hospital
for the prisoners. There were several occupants, many in the last stage
of disease, and the captain, having directed that a screen should be
placed round the bed of the patient whom the visitor had come to see,
left hastily. A visit to the hospital of the citadel was not without
its dangers, for prison fever was no respecter of persons.
Upon a low truckle-bed in one corner of the room a man, shrunken to a
skeleton, lay stretched, apparently at the point of death. He was
conscious, for the light in his eyes was clear although dim, but so weak
was his breathing, so wasted his figure, that at any moment it seemed
the wan flame of life might flicker out. He turned his gaze slowly upon
the stranger as he approached; then there came into his eyes the same
look of inextinguishable hatred that had transfigured the wretched
prisoners in the courtyard.
"Traidor!"
It was a mere movement of the lips, from which no sound issued; but the
visitor, already unnerved, started as if stung; his face flushed,
bringing into relief the livid scar across his brow. Then, collecting
himself with an effort, he said, ignoring the unspoken insult:
"It pains me, my good Jose, to find you thus--sick and a prisoner. I
have come a long way to see you, to bring you freedom--for the sake of
old times. Fortunately I am not too late. A few more days in this
place would have killed you; but we shall soon see what liberty and good
nursing will do, eh, my friend?"
An eager light came into the sick man's eyes. In his feeble state he
was unable to grasp the full import of what his visitor was saying. He
was only capable of mastering one idea at a time. The word "liberty"
had sent a sudden flash of colour into his cheek. The mere prospect of
freedom, dim though it was, had banished for a brief moment his mortal
antipathy to the man beside him. The walls of his prison-house fell
asunder; he saw himself once again among his own people, the trusted
servant of a beloved mistress whom he had sworn to serve, and whom his
capture had left unprotected, exposed to all the dangers of a besieged
city. The other, watching him keenly, was quick to note the changed
expression of his face; and without giving the weakened intelligence
time for ordered thought, he continued in the same tone of kindly
interest:
"But I must first give you news of the senorita. I know, my good Jose,
you care nothing for yourself. It is of her you think. I honour your
fidelity; it is because of that that I am here."
"What of her? Tell me!" whispered the sick man. The voice was scarcely
audible, but the eyes showed an agony of doubt and apprehension; he had
wholly forgotten his distrust. He moved as if to raise himself; but he
was unable to lift his head from the pillow.
"Make your mind easy; she is well, quite well. I left her with the wife
of the old porter. She is a worthy woman, and devoted to the senorita.
My influence with the government of King Joseph ensured the safety of
your mistress after the fall of the city. She sends you the kindest
messages. When you did not return from that brave sortie, she feared
you were dead, and she grieved. But I learnt that you were a prisoner,
and when I told her she clasped her hands and cried for joy, and bade me
come at once to find you. 'Tell my good Jose that I shall know no peace
until I am assured of his safety. I pray for him. He is much in my
thoughts.'"
The sick man's eyes filled with tears. He would have lifted his hand to
dash them away, but his strength was unequal to the effort. The visitor
continued, his accent carefully modulated, gentle, persuasive:
"But, alas! my good friend, she is poor, very poor. The house in
Saragossa is destroyed, burned during the siege. The house at Morata is
pillaged by brigands. There is no rent from the estate; the people are
all dispersed; and the good aunt is dead. The worthy porter and his
wife have scarcely enough to keep themselves. It is terrible, this war;
would that all good Spaniards thought with me that it is best to make
peace with the king!"
The speaker bent forward, intently watching the effect of these words.
As he had expected, a look of keen distress crossed the prisoner's face.
Again he strove to rise, as if by raising himself he could shake off his
intolerable weakness. He was suffering acutely. The visitor was silent
for a while, giving the imagination of the sick man full play. Then he
continued:
"I, alas! can do little to help. I am poor, my good Jose, miserably
poor. I have sacrificed all--you will know how. I would willingly
share my last crust with the senorita, but in this fatal war so many
things may happen. I begged her to take shelter in a convent, but she
would not; brave girl, she would stay to help her people! 'Jose,' she
said, 'could assist us if only he were free. He alone knows what my
poor father has done to provide for me. Go to him, Miguel; tell him of
our distress; he will find a means of helping us.'"
"What would you wish me to do?"
The visitor, bending low, caught the whispered words. The man's clear
eyes were upon him, and he checked the involuntary expression of
satisfaction that crossed his face. But, instantaneous though it was,
the sick man, strangely sensitive to shades of tone and manner, seemed
to be instinctively aware of it, and the other was clearly ill at ease
under his searching gaze.
"Well, my good Jose," he said hesitatingly, "your illness places us in a
difficulty. I have here an order for your release" (he drew from his
pocket a blue paper which might or might not be what he described); "I
hoped that we should have been able to return to Spain together. You
could have then placed the senorita beyond the reach of want; for from
what she told me it is clear that your master left a large sum in your
charge. But, alas! you are not at present able to travel. The best plan
that I can think of is that you send the senorita instructions where she
can find her property--you can either write her a letter or give me the
message,--and I will see that you are released and nursed back to
health. You can return to Spain when you are fit to travel."
The sick man feebly shook his head, whispering:
"I must not tell--anything. I swore it."
"Yes, you swore it, and you have kept your oath. But it was never Don
Fernan's wish that the senorita should be allowed to--to starve while
her fortune remained hidden. It is your duty to be guided by
circumstances--by common sense."
The other winced, but still replied: "I cannot; I swore it. Not till
the war is over."
Then, a ripple of impatience showing above his suave manner, the visitor
said hastily:
"Certainly, but the war is over; the fall of Saragossa finished the war.
Joseph is again king in Madrid."
"You are mistaken, Senor. If what you say is true, the war is only just
beginning." There was a light in the man's eyes, a fierce energy in his
whispered words, that seemed first to embarrass, then to anger his
visitor.
"Well, my friend, if you will not listen to reason, if you prefer to
allow your mistress to starve, I can do nothing more. I will give her
your message." He rose from his seat. "And I shall at least have the
satisfaction of being able to add that such an ungrateful rascal is
dead; for in this hole you won't live another week, and you can't expect
me to do anything for your release."
"Stay!"
The afrancesado caught the word and halted expectantly as he was turning
away. With a supreme effort the sick man had raised himself on his
elbow, and, struggling hard for breath, gasped out:
"Liar! Traitor! Spy! Do you think--I do not--do not see you--for what
you are? Go back--go back, accursed afrancesado, to those who
have--bought you. Out of my sight! The price of blood!--Judas!--the
doom of Judas--awaits you--the doom--of--Judas!"
The afrancesado recoiled as at the stroke of a lash; then an ugly look
crossed his face, and his hand sought the hilt of his knife. But even
as it did so the man sank back half insensible, the gleam of fierce rage
faded from his face, and while Miguel was hesitating whether to stay or
go, the prisoner began to talk in a low but distinct voice, as repeating
a lesson he had learned by heart.
"Yes, Senor, dear master, I swear it. I will watch over the senorita as
long as I have life; I swear it. None shall ever know except the senor
Ingles. In the garden--the old--"
His voice was dying away again into a whisper; the afrancesado bent
eagerly over him to catch the feeble tones, and when he rose a look of
mingled greed and malignant triumph shone in his eyes. He waited for a
while longer, while the sick man continued to babble in the same strain,
his voice occasionally rising so that it could plainly be heard by the
sufferers in the neighbouring beds. Murmurs arose, and, helpless as
they were, their mutterings struck the heart of the afrancesado with a
cold chill of dread. Rising, and throwing one hurried backward glance
at the now silent figure on the bed, he hastened from the room, pursued
by the vengeful glance of all who were conscious enough to recognize
him.
An hour later the sick man opened his eyes and looked around, as though
fearing to meet once more the traitor's malign glance.
"What is that you were saying about a promise, and a garden, and a
senorita?" whispered the prisoner in the next bed.
"Saying! When?" he asked with a note of mortal anguish.
"Just now, when the vile afrancesado was with you. Have you forgotten?"
The man waited a moment, expecting a reply. None came; the man had
fainted.
The afrancesado did not leave Bayonne that night as he intended.
Stricken with the prison fever, he took to his bed, and there lay for
several weeks, tended with unstinted care by his one-eyed servant. When
he recovered from his delirium he was eager to set out, as soon as his
strength permitted, on his return journey to Spain, and was amazed to
hear from the French commandant that he must consider himself a
prisoner.
"Nonsense!" he said; "la prisoner! What have you against me?"
"The prisoner you talked with in the sick ward, monsieur--"
"Is he dead?" asked Miguel eagerly.
"He may be, but his body has not been recovered. His health rapidly
mended from the day of your interview with him, and ten days ago he
escaped by swimming the Adour--a marvellous feat for a man in his
condition."
"Escaped!" screamed Miguel, starting up. "I must go, I must go at once,
before it is too late!"
"Then you did not arrange the escape, monsieur?" said the Frenchman,
surprised at the other's violence.
"Arrange it! Am I a fool? Am I mad? Arrange the escape of my worst
enemy! I must go! He has gone to rob me; he will ruin me; I must go,
before it is too late!"
His agitation was so sincere that, after a consultation among the French
officers, the afrancesado was permitted, a few days later, to depart
with his servant, and they rode southward out of Bayonne at a furious
pace, the stones clattering, the dust flying behind, and all who saw
them staring after them in amazement.
*CHAPTER XXXIII*
*Palafox the Name*
Nonplussed--In the Convent--A Warning--The Key--Permutations and
Combinations--Light Ahead--Don Fernan's Message
One day the guerrilla camp in the mountains was thrown into some
excitement by the sudden reappearance of Pepito. All the guerrilleros
by this time knew something of the strange complications in which the
English senor was involved. They had been constantly on the look-out
for the gipsy boy whom he was so anxious to see; and when, on this sunny
morning, the boy was seen bounding up the hillside, they flocked to him
in a crowd, crying "Que hay de nuevo? Que hay de nuevo?" Pepito made
them no answer. He had already caught sight of his master sitting some
yards above him, and rushed forward with a piercing cry of delight.
"Found, Senor!" he shouted. "Found!"
Jack needed no telling who was found.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"Glad Senor is well, glad Senor is well!" shouted the little fellow.
"The Senorita will be glad too. Oh, she will! When I told the
Senorita--"
"Where is she?" repeated Jack impatiently.
"When I told the Senorita that Senor was ill, she jumped up; said she
must come; but the old Busna looked ugly; said no; and I come to fetch
Senor."
"Pepito, tell me at once where she is."
"Safe, at a convent near Carinena, Senor, all among the trees and
flowers. Senor can go, now he is well, and I know who will be pleased.
Yes, I know!"
"You're a good boy, Pepito." He turned to Dugdale. "Grampus, when shall
I be fit to ride?"
"Good heavens! Not for a long time. Look here, Lumsden, I'm not going
to have my cure spoilt and my career ruined by you going raiding before
you're fit. Don't laugh. I'm in dead earnest. I'm sick and tired of
playing the fool at Oxford. As soon as I get home I'm going to be a
doctor. New idea, you know; fresh air and cold water. The pater will
laugh himself into a fit when I tell him; but don't you see, if you back
me up, and I can show you as my first case--why, bet you the old boy
comes round and doubles my allowance, to encourage me. See?"
"All right!" said Jack, laughing. "But you must finish my cure quickly,
for the instant I can manage it I'm going to ride over to Carinena."
"What for? What is there special about Carinena?"
"Well, I've a--a friend there I want specially to see."
"H'm! A friend? Bet you my first year's fees it's a girl. Now look
here, Lumsden, don't be a fool. An Englishman oughtn't to marry till
he's thirty at least. I've got ten years yet, and it won't be too much.
It takes time to be able to face a girl without flinching, and for my
part I'd rather learn Greek verbs than--"
"Oh, shut up!" exclaimed Jack. "Who said anything about marrying?
Juanita--"
"Oho! Juanita! Sorry for you, my boy; no cure for that complaint.
Well, I'll take care of you, but it'll be a long time yet before you can
ride."
Nearly a month passed away before Jack, after a few experiments, was
pronounced fit to undertake the ride to Carinena. The period of waiting
was diversified by one or two expeditions against French convoys, in
which Antonio achieved brilliant successes. Jack chafed at being
obliged to remain inactive, and to share in these raids merely in
imagination. He spent hour after hour in attempting to decipher the
postscript of Don Fernan's letter, always without success. Remembering
the enigmatical phrase in the letter he himself had received in
Salamanca, "Palafox the Man, Palafox the Name", he believed that the key
must be contained in that; but though he tried to fit it to the ciphered
message, and made considerable demands on Dugdale's patience, he drew no
nearer to solving the puzzle, and finally gave it up in disgust.
At length the day arrived when, feeling well and strong, he set off on
his ride to the convent. Pepito had several times conveyed verbal
messages between him and Juanita, but nothing had been committed to
paper for fear lest it should fall into the hands of the French. Guided
by the boy, who rode before him, he reached the convent in the afternoon
of a beautiful April day, and was at once admitted to the presence of
Juanita, with whom he found the old duenna he had seen in Saragossa.
Though Juanita greeted him with as much cordiality as ever, he was
conscious of a slight difference in her manner; there was not quite the
same frank comradeship she had shown in Saragossa.
"I am very glad to see you looking so well, Jack," she said. "Will you
take a cup of chocolate?"
"Thanks!" replied Jack briefly. He sipped it for a brief interval
without speaking, then said suddenly: "I say, Juanita, I am mighty glad
you escaped, you know. It was good of Padre Consolacion to help
you--after trying to persuade you to marry Miguel, too. Tell me about
it."
Without her usual animation Juanita recounted how she had been captured
as she neared Morata by a party of troopers, among whom she had
recognized Perez, Miguel's one-eyed man. She had been treated kindly
enough by the wife of a colonel of chasseurs, who, however, irritated
her beyond endurance by constant reference to her approaching marriage.
Miguel himself had only seen her once. He had asked what had become of
her father's old servant Jose, and shown some annoyance when she refused
to answer. But she had had another and a more frequent visitor. After
the capitulation, Padre Consolacion had been surprised to find that,
though he had been as consistent an opponent as Don Basilio and Santiago
Sass, he had not met with the same fate at the hands of the French. He
could only conclude that he owed his security to the good offices of
Miguel, whom, however, he now held in utter abhorrence. Making his
escape from the city, he had gone into hiding at Morata, where he soon
learnt of what had befallen Juanita. It was not difficult for him, with
the assistance of the people of the house, to obtain secret interviews
with her. On the day before Miguel went with Commissary Taberne on the
foraging expedition, Juanita learnt from the colonel's wife that
pressure was to be brought to bear in high quarters for the purpose of
bringing about her marriage with Don Miguel. She sent a message by a
secret channel to Padre Consolacion, informing him of this alarming
news. On the next evening, almost at the moment when Jack was surprising
the commissary, she had slipped out of the house in the dress of one of
the Spanish maid-servants, fled to where the priest was awaiting her,
and by him was escorted to the convent, where she was joined in a few
days by the duenna, after the sudden swoop of Antonio had cleared the
place of French.
"The padre is a trump," said Jack. "I confess I didn't like him in
Saragossa; but then, of course, he hadn't found Miguel out. I thought
he must be either stupid or something worse. I shall do him more
justice in future."
He would not perhaps have been so cordial if he had known that it was to
Padre Consolacion he owed the strange alteration in Juanita's manner
which had puzzled him. When he left her in the convent, the padre's
last words had been: "Now, querida mia, though I have helped you to
escape a marriage with a traitor and a villain, remember I shall not
approve, I shall forbid, your marriage with a heretic. You will
understand me."
All unconscious of this, Jack waxed eloquent in praise of the padre, and
went on: "Well now, I've something to tell you besides what you have
heard from Pepito. You remember that a letter left with General Palafox
for my father disappeared--a letter about your property?"
"Yes. I hate the sound of the word 'property'."
"I have the letter. It was--perhaps you guess--in the possession of
Miguel."
He proceeded to tell the whole story. Juanita listened with growing
interest, and when it was concluded every trace of her stiffness had
passed away.
"Ah, Jack!" she cried, "now we can get this wretched treasure that has
nearly cost your life--for but for it you would never have come to
Saragossa--and then--oh! do you think we can get away to England?"
"I'm very sorry, Juanita. I was just going to tell you that I'm afraid
we can't get the treasure."
"Why not? You said the letter was about it."
"So it is. But, unfortunately, the secret of its whereabouts is locked
up in a postscript--a single line of capital letters, which I can't
read. It is in cipher."
"Show it to me. You have it with you?"
Jack took out the paper, and unfolded it before her. She read over the
postscript letter by letter: