CHAPTER XIII
THE GRIP OF THE VELVET GLOVEOn returning to the hotel in the corner of the Plaza de la Constitution,Sarrion threw down on the table before Marcos the note that Father Murohad given him. He made no comment.
"My dear uncle," the letter ran, "I am writing to advise you of mydecision to go into religion. I am prompted to communicate this to youwithout delay by the remembrance of your many kindnesses to me. You will,I know, agree with me that this step can only be for my happiness in thisworld and the next. Your grateful niece.--JUANITA DE MOGENTE."
Marcos read the letter carefully, and then seeking in his pocket,produced the note that Juanita had passed to him through the hole in thewall of the convent school at Saragossa. It seemed that he carried withhim always the scrap of paper that she had hidden within her dress untilthe moment that she gave it to him.
He laid the two letters side by side and compared them.
"The writing is the writing of Juanita," he said; "but the words are not.They are spelt correctly!"
He folded the letters again, with his determined smile, and placed themin his pocket. Sarrion, smoking a cigarette by the stove, glanced at hisson and knew that Juanita's fate was fixed. For good or ill, forhappiness or misery, she was destined to marry Marcos de Sarrion if thewhole church of Rome should rise up and curse his soul and hers for thedeed.
Sarrion appeared to have no suggestions to make. He continued to smokereflectively while he warmed himself at the stove. He was wise enough toperceive that his must now be the secondary part. To possess power and toresist the temptation to use it, is the task of kings. To quietlyrelinquish the tiller of a younger life is a lesson that gray hairs haveto learn.
"I think," said Marcos at length, "that we must see Leon. He is herguardian. We will give him a last chance."
"Will you warn him?" inquired Sarrion.
"Yes," replied Marcos, rising. "He may be here in Pampeluna. I think itlikely that he is. They are hard pressed. If they get the dispensationfrom Rome they will hurry events. They will try to rush Juanita intoreligion at once. And Leon's presence is indispensable. They are probablyready and only awaiting the permission of the Vatican. They are all herein Pampeluna, which is better than Saragossa for such work--better thanany city in Spain. They probably have Leon waiting here to give hisformal consent when required."
"Then let us go and find out," said Sarrion.
The Plaza de la Constitucion is the centre of the town, and beneath itscolonnade are the offices of the countless diligences that connect thesmaller towns of Navarre with the capital, which continued to run even intime of war to such places as Irun, Jaca, and even Estella, where theCarlist cause is openly espoused. Marcos made the round of the diligenceoffices. He had, it seemed, a hundred friends among the thick-setmuleteers in breeches, stockings, and spotless shirt, who looked at himwith keen, dust-laden eyes from beneath the shade of their great berets.The drivers of the diligences, which were now arriving from the mountainvillages, paused in their work of unloading their vehicles to give himthe latest news.
They were soft spoken persons with a repressed manner, whichcharacterises both men and women of their ancient race, and they spoke tohim in Basque. Some freed their hands from the folds of the long blanket,which each wore according to his fancy, to shake hands with him; othersnodded curtly. Men from the valley of Ebro muttered "Buenas"--the curtsalutation of Aragon the taciturn.
Marcos seemed to know them by their baptismal names. He even knew theirhorses by name also, and asked after each, while Perro, affable alikewith rich and poor, exchanged the time of day with traveled dogs, alllean and dusty from the road, who limped on sore feet and probably toldhim of the snow while they lay in the sun and licked their paws. Like hismaster, he was not proud, but took a wide view of life, so that allvarieties of it came within his field of vision.
Then master and dog took a walk down the Calle del Pozo Blanco, where thesaddle and harness-makers congregate; where muleteers must come to buythose gay saddle-bags which so soon lose their bright colour in theglaring sun; where the guardias civiles step in to buy their paste andpipe-clay; where the great man's groom may chat with the teamster fromthe mountain while both are waiting on the saddler's needle.
Finally Marcos passed through the wide Calle de San Ignacio to thedrawbridges across the double fosse, where the rope-makers are always atwork, walking backwards with an ever decreasing bundle of hemp at theirwaists and one eye cocked upwards towards the roadway so that they knowall who come and go better even than the sentry at the gate. For thesentries are changed three or four times a day, while the rope-maker goeson forever.
Just beyond the second line of fortifications is a halting-place by a lowwall where the country women (whom one may meet riding in theplain--dignified, cloaked and hooded figures, startlingly suggestive of asacred picture) on mule or donkey, stop to descend from their perchbetween the saddle-bags or panniers. It is a sort of al fresco cloakroomwhere these ladies repair the ravages of wind or storm, where theyassemble in the evening to pack their purchases on their beasts ofburden, and finally climb to the top of all themselves. For it is notetiquette to ride in or out of the gates upon one's wares; and a breachof this unwritten law would immediately arouse the suspicion of thecourteous toll-officer, who fingers delicately with a tobacco-stainedhand the bundles and baskets submitted to his inspection.
Here also Marcos had friends, and was able to tell the latest news fromCuba, where some had husband, son or lover; a so-called volunteer to putdown the hopeless rebellion, attracted to a miserable death, by theforty-pound bounty paid by Government. There were old women who chaffedhim, and young ones with fine-cut classic features and crinkled hair, wholay in wait for a glance from his grave eyes.
"It is a pity there are not more like you, Senor Conde," said one oldpeasant; "for it is you that keeps the men from fighting among themselvesand makes them tend the sheep or take in the crops. Carlist or Royalist,the land comes before either, say I."
"For it is the land that feeds the children," added another, who carrieda pair of small espradrillas in her apron pocket.
Marcos went back to his father with such information as he had been ableto gather.
"Leon is here," he said. "He is in Retreat at the monastery of theRedemptionists, which stands half-empty on the road to Villaba. SorTeresa and Juanita are both well and in the school in the Calle de laDormitaleria. Mon has been here for some weeks, but went to Madrid fourdays ago. It is an open secret that Pacheco will go over to the Carlistswith his whole army corps for cash down--but he will not take a promise.The Carlists think that their opportunity has come."
"And so do I," said Sarrion. "The Duke of Aosta is the son of VictorEmmanuel, we must remember that. And no son of the man who overthrew thePope can hope to be tolerated by the clerical party here. The new kingwill be assassinated, Marcos. I give him six months."
"Will you come this afternoon to the old monastery on the Villaba roadand see Leon?" asked Marcos.
"Oh, yes," laughed his father. "I shall enjoy it." It was the hour of thesiesta when they quitted the town on horseback by the Puerta de Rochapeawhich gives exit to the city on the northern side. It had been sunnysince morning, and the snow had melted from the roads, but the hillsacross the plain were still white and great drifts were piled against theramparts, forming a natural buttress from the summit of the steep riverbank almost to the deep embrasures of the wall.
Marcos turned in his saddle and looked up at these as they rode down theslope. Sarrion saw the action and glanced at Marcos and then at thetowering walls. But he made no comment and asked no questions.
There are two old monasteries on the Villaba road; huge buildings withina high wall, each owning a chapel which stands apart from thedwelling-house. It is a known fact that the Carlists have neverthreatened these buildings which stand far outside the town. It is also afact that the range of them has been carefully measured by the artilleryofficers, and the great guns on the city walls were at this ti
me trainedon the isolated buildings to batter them to the ground at the first signof treachery.
Marcos pulled the bell-rope swinging in the wind outside the great doorof the monastery, while Sarrion tied the horses to a post. The door wasopened by a stout monk whose face fell when he perceived two laymen inriding costume. Humbler persons, as a rule, rang this bell.
"The Marquis de Mogente is here?" said Marcos, and the monk spread outhis hands in a gesture of denial.
"Whoever is here," he said, "is in Retreat. One does not disturb thedevout."
He made a movement to close the door, but Marcos put his thickly bootedfoot in the interstice. Then he placed his shoulder against theweather-worn door and pushed it open, sending the monk staggering back.Sarrion followed and was in time to place himself between the monk andthe bell towards which the devotee was running.
"No, my friend," he said, "we will not ring the bell."
"You have no business here," said the holy man, looking from one to theother with sullen eyes.
"So far as that goes, no more have you," said Marcos. "There are nomonasteries in Spain now. Sit down on that bench and keep quiet."
He turned and glanced at his father.
"Yes," said Sarrion, with his grim smile, "I will watch him."
"Where shall I find Leon de Mogente?" said Marcos to the monk. "I do notwish to disturb other persons."
The monk reflected for a moment.
"It is the third door on the right," he said at length, nodding hisshaven head towards a long passage seen through the open door.
Marcos went in, his spurred heels clanking loudly in the half-emptyhouse. He knocked at the door of the third cell on the right; for in hisway he was a devout person and wished to disturb no man at his prayers.The door was opened by Leon himself, who started back when he saw who hadknocked. Marcos went into the room which was small and bare andwhitewashed, and closed the door behind him. A few religious emblems wereon the wall above the narrow bed. A couple of books lay on the table. Onewas open. It was a very old edition of a Kempis. Leon de Mogente'sreligion was of the sort that felt itself able to learn more from an oldedition than a new one. There are many in these days of cheap imitationof the mediaeval who feel the same.
Leon sat down on the plain wooden bench and laid his hand on the openbook. He looked with weak eyes at Marcos and waited for him to speak.Marcos obliged him at once.
"I have come to see you about Juanita," he said. "Have you given yourconsent to her taking the veil?"
Leon reflected. He had the air of a man who having been carefully taughta part, loses his place at the first cue.
"What business is it of yours?" he asked, rather hesitatingly at length.
"None."
Leon made a hopeless gesture of the hand and looked at his book with aface of distress and embarrassment. Marcos was sorry for him. He wasstrong, and it is the strong who are quickest to detect pathos.
"Will you answer me?" he asked.
And Leon shook his head.
"I have come here to warn you," said Marcos, not unkindly. "I know thatJuanita has inherited a fortune from her father. I know that the Carlistcause is falling for want of money. I know that the Jesuits will get themoney if they can. Because Don Carlos is their last chance in their laststronghold in Europe. They will get Juanita's money if they can--and theycan only do it by forcing Juanita into religion. And I have come to warnyou that I shall prevent them."
Leon looked at Marcos and gulped something down in his throat. He was notafraid of Marcos, but he was in terror of some one or of something else.Marcos studied the white face, the shrinking, hunted eyes, with the quietpersistence learnt from watching Nature.
"Are you a Jesuit?" he asked bluntly.
But Leon only drew in a gasping breath and made no answer.
Then Marcos went out and closed the door behind him.
The Velvet Glove Page 13