‘Who travels slowly may arrive too late,’ said the Padre Concha, with a pessimistic shake of the head, as the carrier’s cart in which he had come from Toledo drew up in the Plazuela de la Cebada at Madrid. The careful penury1 of many years had not, indeed, enabled the old priest to travel by the quick diligences, which had often passed him on the road with a cloud of dust and the rattle2 of six horses. The great journey had been accomplished3 in the humbler vehicles plying5 from town to town, that ran as often as not by night in order to save the horses.
The priest, like his fellow-travellers, was white with dust. Dust covered his cloak so that its original hue6 of rusty7 black was quite lost. Dust coated his face and nestled in the deep wrinkles of it. His eyebrows8 were lost to sight, and his lashes9 were like those of a miller10.
As he stood in the street the dust arose in whirling columns and enveloped11 all who were abroad; for a gale12 was howling across the tableland, which the Moors13 of old had named ‘Majerit’—a draught14 of wind. The conductor, who, like a good and jovial15 conductor, had never refused an offer of refreshment16 on the road, was now muddled17 with drink and the heat of the sun. He was, in fact, engaged in a warm controversy18 with a passenger. So the Padre found his own humble4 portmanteau, a thing of cardboard and canvas, and trudged19 up the Calle de Toledo, bearing the bag in one hand and his cloak in the other—a lean figure in the sunlight.
Father Concha had been in Madrid before, though he rarely boasted of it, or indeed of any of his travels.
‘The wise man does not hang his knowledge on a hook,’ he was in the habit of saying.
That this knowledge was of that useful description which is usually designated as knowing one’s way about, soon became apparent; for the dusty traveller passed with unerring steps through the narrower streets that lie between the Calle de Toledo and the street of Segovia. Here dwell the humbler citizens of Madrid, persons engaged in the small commerce of the market-place, for in the Plazuela de la Cebada a hundred yards away is held the corn market, which, indeed, renders the dust in this quarter particularly trying to the eyes. Once or twice the priest was forced to stop at the corner of two streets and there do battle with the wind.
‘But it is a hurricane,’ he muttered; ‘a hurricane.’
With one hand he held his hat, with the other clung to his cloak and portmanteau.
‘But it will blow the dust from my poor old capa,’ he added, giving the cloak an additional shake.
He presently found himself in a street which, if narrower than its neighbours, smelt20 less pestiferous. The open drain that ran down the middle of it pursued its varied21 course with a quite respectable speed. In the middle of the street Father Concha paused and looked up, nodding as if to an old friend at the sight of a dingy22 piece of palm bound to the ironwork of a balcony on the second floor.
‘The time to wash off the dust,’ he muttered as he climbed the narrow stairs, ‘and then to work.’
An hour later he was afoot again in a quarter of the city which was less known to him—namely, in the Calle Preciados, where he sought a venta more or less suspected by the police. The wind had risen, and was now blowing with the force of a hurricane. It came from the north-west with a chill whistle which bespoke23 its birthplace among the peaks of the Gaudarramas. The streets were deserted25; the oil lamps swung on their chains at the street corners, casting weird26 shadows that swept over the face of the houses with uncanny irregularity. It was an evening for evil deeds, except that when Nature is in an ill-humour human nature is mostly cowed, and those who have bad consciences cannot rid their minds of thoughts of the hereafter.
The priest found the house he sought, despite the darkness of the street and the absence of any from whom to elicit27 information. The venta was on the ground-floor, and above it towered storey after storey, built with the quaint28 fantasy of the middle ages, and surmounted29 by a deep, overhanging gabled roof. The house seemed to have two staircases of stone and two doors—one on each side of the venta. There is a Spanish proverb which says that the rat which has only one hole is soon caught. Perhaps the architect remembered this, and had built his house to suit his tenants30. It was on the fifth floor of this tenement31 that Father Concha, instructed by Heaven knows what priestly source of information, looked to meet with Sebastian, the whilom bodyservant of the late Colonel Monreal of Xeres.
It was known among a certain section of the Royalists that this man had papers and perchance some information of value to dispose of, and more than one respectable, black-clad elbow had brushed the greasy32 walls of this staircase. Sebastian, it was said, passed his time in drinking and smoking. The boasted gaieties of Madrid had, it would appear, diminished to this sordid33 level of dissipation.
The man was, indeed, thus occupied when the old priest opened the door of his room.
‘Yes,’ he answered in a thick voice, ‘I am Sebastian of Xeres, and no other; the man who knows more of the Carlist plots than any other in Madrid.’
‘Can you read?’
‘No.’
‘Then you know nothing,’ said the Padre. ‘You have, however, a letter in a pink envelope which a friend of mine desires to possess. It is a letter of no importance, of no political value—a love letter, in fact.’
‘Ah, yes! Ah, yes! That may be, reverendo. But there are others who want it—your love letter.’
‘I offer you, on the part of my friend, a hundred pesetas for this letter.’
The priest’s wrinkled face wore a grim smile. It was so little—a hundred pesetas, the price of a dinner for two persons at one of the great restaurants on the Puerta del Sol. But to Father Concha the sum represented five hundred cups of black coffee denied to himself in the evening at the café—five hundred packets of cigarettes, so-called of Havana, unsmoked—two new cassocks in the course of twenty years—a hundred little gastronomic35 delights sternly resisted season after season.
‘Not enough, your hundred pesetas, reverendo, not enough,’ laughed the man. And Concha, who could drive as keen a bargain as any market-woman of Ronda, knew by the manner of saying it that Sebastian only spoke24 the truth when he said that he had other offers.
‘See, reverendo,’ the man went on, leaning across the table and banging a dirty fist upon it, ‘come to-night at ten o’clock. There are others coming at the same hour to buy my letter in the pink envelope. We will have an auction36, a little auction, and the letter goes to the highest bidder37. But what does your reverence38 want with a love letter, eh?’
‘I will come,’ said the Padre, and, turning, he went home to count his money once more.
There are many living still who remember the great gale of wind which was now raging, and through which Father Concha struggled back to the Calle Preciados as the city clocks struck ten. Old men and women still tell how the theatres were deserted that night and the great cafés wrapt in darkness. For none dare venture abroad amid such whirl and confusion. Concha, however, with that lean strength that comes from a life of abstemiousness39 and low-living, crept along in the shadow of the houses and reached his destination unhurt. The tall house in the alley40 leading from the Calle Preciados to the Plazuela Santa Maria was dark, as indeed were most of the streets of Madrid this night. A small moon struggled, however, through the riven clouds at times, and cast streaks41 of light down the narrow streets. Concha caught sight of the form of a man in the alley before him. The priest carried no weapon, but he did not pause. At this moment a gleam of light aided him.
‘Se?or Conyngham!’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’
And the Englishman turned sharply on his heel.
‘Is that you—Father Concha, of Ronda?’ he asked.
‘No other, my son.’
Standing42 in the doorway43 Conyngham held out his hand with that air of good-fellowship which he had not yet lost amid the more formal Spaniards.
‘Hardly the night for respectable elderly gentlemen of your cloth to be in the streets,’ he said; whereat Concha, who had a keen appreciation44 of such small pleasantries, laughed grimly.
‘And I have not even the excuse of my cloth. I am abroad on worldly business, and not even my own. I will be honest with you, Se?or Conyngham. I am here to buy that malediction45 of a letter in a pink envelope. You remember—in the garden at Ronda, eh?’
‘Yes, I remember; and why do you want that letter?’
‘For the sake of Julia Barenna.’
‘Ah! I want it for the sake of Estella Vincente.’
Concha laughed shortly.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is only up to the age of twenty-five that men imagine themselves to be the rulers of the world. But we need not bid against each other, my son. Perhaps a sight of the letter before I destroy it would satisfy the se?orita.’
‘No, we need not bid against each other,’ began Conyngham; but the priest dragged him back into the doorway with a quick whisper of ‘Silence!’
Someone was coming down the other stairway of the tall house, with slow and cautious steps. Conyngham and his companion drew back to the foot of the stairs and waited. It became evident that he who descended46 the steps did so without a light. At the door he seemed to stop, probably making sure that the narrow alley was deserted. A moment later he hurried past the door where the two men stood. The moon was almost clear, and by its light both the watchers recognised Larralde in a flash of thought. The next instant Esteban Larralde was running for his life with Frederick Conyngham on his heels.
The lamp at the corner of the Calle Preciados had been shattered against the wall by a gust47 of wind, and both men clattered48 through a slough49 of broken glass. Down the whole length of the Preciados but one lamp was left alight, and the narrow street was littered with tiles and fallen bricks, for many chimneys had been blown down, and more than one shutter50 lay in the roadway, torn from its hinges by the hurricane. It was at the risk of life that any ventured abroad at this hour and amid the whirl of falling masonry51. Larralde and Conyngham had the Calle Preciados to themselves—and Larralde cursed his spurs, which rang out at each footfall, and betrayed his whereabouts.
A dozen times the Spaniard fell, but before his pursuer could reach him, the same obstacle threw Conyngham to the ground. A dozen times some falling object crashed to earth on the Spaniard’s heels, and the Englishman leapt aside to escape the rebound52. Larralde was fleet of foot despite his meagre limbs, and leapt over such obstacles as he could perceive, with the agility53 of a monkey. He darted54 into the lighted doorway—the entrance to the palatial55 mansion56 of an upstart politician. The large doors were thrown open, and the hall-porter stood in full livery awaiting the master’s carriage. Larralde was already in the patio34, and Conyngham ran through the marble-paved entrance hall, before the porter realised what was taking place. There was no second exit as the fugitive57 had hoped—so it was round the patio and out again into the dark street, leaving the hall-porter dumfoundered.
Larralde turned sharply to the right as soon as he gained the Calle Preciados. It was a mere58 alley running the whole way round a church—and here again was solitude59, but not silence, for the wind roared among the chimneys overhead as it roars through a ship’s rigging at sea. The Calle Preciados again! and a momentary60 confusion among the tables of a café that stood upon the pavement, amid upturned chairs and a fallen, flapping awning61. The pace was less killing62 now, but Larralde still held his own—one hand clutched over the precious letter regained63 at last—and Conyngham was conscious of a sharp pain where the Spaniard’s knife had touched his lung.
Larralde ran mechanically with open mouth and staring eyes. He never doubted that death was at his heels, should he fail to distance the pursuer. For he had recognised Conyngham in the patio of the great house, and as he ran the vague wonder filled his mind whether the Englishman carried a knife. What manner of death would it be if that long arm reached him? Esteban Larralde was afraid. His own life—Julia’s life—the lives of a whole Carlist section were at stake. The history of Spain, perhaps of Europe, depended on the swiftness of his foot.
The little crescent moon was shining clearly now between the long-drawn rifts64 of the rushing clouds. Larralde turned to the right again, up a narrow street which seemed to promise a friendly darkness. The ascent65 was steep, and the Spaniard gasped66 for breath as he ran—his legs were becoming numb67. He had never been in this street before, and knew not whither it led. But it was at all events dark and deserted. Suddenly he fell upon a heap of bricks and rubbish, a whole stack of chimneys. He could smell the soot68. Conyngham was upon him, touched him, but failed to get a grip. Larralde was afoot in an instant, and fell heavily down the far side of the barricade69. He gained a few yards again, and, before Conyngham’s eyes, was suddenly swallowed up in a black mass of falling masonry. It was more than a chimney this time; nothing less than a whole house carried bodily to the ground by the fall of the steeple of the church of Santa Maria del Monte. Conyngham stopped dead, and threw his arms over his head. The crash was terrific, deafening—and for a few moments the Englishman was stunned70. He opened his eyes and closed them again, for the dust and powdered mortar71 whirled round him like smoke. Almost blinded, he crept back by the way he had come, and the street was already full of people. In the Calle Preciados he sat down on a door-step, and there waited until he had gained mastery over his limbs, which shook still. Presently he made his way back to the house where he had left Concha.
The man Sebastian had, a week earlier, seen and recognised Conyngham as the bearer of the letter addressed to Colonel Monreal, and left at that officer’s lodging72 in Xeres at the moment of his death in the streets. Sebastian approached Conyngham, and informed him that he had in his possession sundry73 papers belonging to the late Colonel Monreal, which might be of value to a Royalist. This was, therefore, not the first time that Conyngham had climbed the narrow stairs of the tall house with two doors.
He found Concha busying himself by the bedside, where Sebastian lay in the unconsciousness of deep drink.
‘He has probably been drugged,’ said the priest. ‘Or, he may be dying. What is more important to us is, that the letter is not here. I have searched. Larralde escaped you?’
‘Yes; and of course has the letter.’
‘Of course, amigo.’
The priest looked at the prostrate74 man with a face of profound contempt, and, shrugging his shoulders, went towards the door.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘I must return to Toledo and Julia. It is thither75 that this Larralde always returns, and she, poor woman, believes in him. Ah, my friend’—he paused and shook his long finger at Conyngham. ‘When a woman believes in a man she makes him or mars him; there is no medium.’
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1
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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3
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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4
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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5
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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6
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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7
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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8
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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9
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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10
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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13
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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15
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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17
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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24
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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25
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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30
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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gastronomic
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| adj.美食（烹饪）法的，烹任学的 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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bidder
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| n.(拍卖时的)出价人，报价人，投标人 | |
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38
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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39
abstemiousness
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| n.适中，有节制 | |
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40
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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42
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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43
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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44
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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45
malediction
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| n.诅咒 | |
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46
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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47
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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49
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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50
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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51
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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52
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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53
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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54
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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55
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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56
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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57
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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60
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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61
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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62
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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63
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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64
rifts
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| n.裂缝( rift的名词复数 )；裂隙；分裂；不和 | |
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65
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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66
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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67
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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68
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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69
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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70
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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71
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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72
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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73
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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74
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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75
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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