Part 33

“It is undecided,” Lady Vale-Avon cut in before the girl could make us a present of Carmona’s plans. “We may take some excursions. As there’s a fine road to Barcelona, we may go there and to Montserrat; and the Duke has said something about Bilbao—”

“But, Mother, surely we’re going to Seville for Holy Week!” cried Monica.

“There’s no reason why we should arrive before Maundy Thursday,” replied Lady Vale-Avon, hiding annoyance. “But isn’t that the Duke coming out? I hope he won’t be long. It’s windy here, and you have a cold coming on, my dear Duchess.”

We were dismissed; and raising our hats again we drove on, Pilar waving a small, encouraging hand to Monica. “They won’t do any of those things,” said the Spanish girl. “Something tells me they mean to start for Seville as soon as they can.”

“Something tells me so too,” said I. “And something tells me that Carmona’s errand at the Ministry of War is to find out whether Lieutenant Cristóbal O’Donnel y Alvarez is really away from Burgos on leave.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” murmured the Cherub. “But the thought will not bring a grey hair. Cristóbal is on leave; and he told his brother officers that he expected to go with his family to Seville. It was at the last minute that his plans were changed. No one was taken into his confidence; and it will be very negligent of San Cristóbal to let him meet in Biarritz any common acquaintance of his and Carmona’s.”

“I’m putting my faith in San Cristóbal,” said I. “But as he has a good deal to attend to, the less I show myself in Madrid, where my adopted brother must be known, the better.”

“He hasn’t been as often here as Pilar and I,” said the Cherub, “so he knows few people. Still, Cristóbal’s uniform should now be put away, and Cristóbal should wear civilian clothes.”

“He certainly will,” I answered, laughing. And Colonel O’Donnel gave himself up to directing Dick which way to go, as we were in the most crowded centre now, close to the Puerta del Sol.

This big, open space, shaped like a parallelogram, walled by hotels, Government buildings, and shops, struck me as a Spanish combination of Piccadilly Circus and the Mansion House, thrown into one. Ten busy streets poured their traffic into the place; intricate lines of tramways converged there. The pavements were crowded with loungers who had the air of never doing anything but lounge, and wait for excitements. There was much coming and going of leisurely pedestrians, talking and laughing, all classes mingling together; men in silk hats on the way to their clubs chatting with men in capas and grey sombreros, who belonged to very different clubs; smart officers in uniform shoulder to shoulder with bull-fighters whose little twisted pigtails of black hair appeared under their tilted hats; ragged but handsome beggars thinking themselves as good, if not as fortunate, as their brothers in broadcloth; merry boys shouting the evening papers, black-eyed women and men selling cheap but colourful jewelry, post-cards, toys, and marvellous sweets. It was as gay a scene as could be found in any capital, and it seemed to me that this absolute democracy was after all the true note of modern Spain. Whatever else we may be, we never have been, never will be a nation of snobs, we Spaniards whose favourite saint is the peasant Isidro.

Steering cautiously through the throng which scarcely troubled itself to move before us, we took one of the main arteries leading out from the Puerta del Sol (where no sign of a gate was to be seen), and turned into the deep blue shadows of the Calle Echegaray to our hotel.

Already I had discovered that it is not the habit of Spanish landlords to descend from the important first floor to the unimportant ground floor and welcome their guests. They are glad to have you come if you choose, but they do not care if you stop away, for there are plenty of others; and whether you are cousin to the King of England or an American millionaire, or a Spanish commercial traveller, very timid and just starting in business, you will be given the same reception, unless you put on “proud airs,” when you will be shown that you had better go elsewhere. But with an old friend, all is different; everyone welcomed the Cherub and the señorita; for their sakes everyone welcomed Dick and me. I was vaguely introduced as a relative—no name given; no name, in the flurry of greeting, asked; for Spain is not like France or Germany, where the first thing to do is to write down all particulars about yourself on a piece of paper.

Ropes drove the car off to a garage, and we were shown to rooms which made us realize that we had left the provinces behind and come into the capital.

“Thank goodness I shall have a pillow to sleep on to-night,” said Dick, “instead of doing the carved-knight-on-a-marble-tomb act. I looked particularly at the two neat, rounded blocks those chaps in Burgos Cathedral had to rest their heads on, and the alleged pillows on my bed were an exact copy, hardness and all.”

“I like them hard,” said I.

“That’s right! Stand up for Spanish institutions.”

“There’s one anyhow I don’t think you’d run down,” I remarked.

“Which one?”

“Spanish girls.”

We dined in great spirits that evening, in the big scarlet and gold restaurant; and in rich, red Marqués de Riscal Dick drank confusion to the Duque de Carmona. The Cherub had told us where Carmona’s flat was situated, saying that his car would perhaps be kept under the same roof with his carriage and the state coach.

The company was interesting to watch. Leoncavallo had as a guest the famous ex-bull-fighter Mazzantini; a Russian prince entertained several beauties of the Opera; and there were two or three politicians greatly in the public eye. We were hungry; the dinner was good; there was much to talk over; and all seemed to be going well.

But about half-past ten, when Pilar had gone, and the Cherub was having a “yarn” and a cigar in the sitting-room of our suite; Ropes appeared, looking serious.

“Something bad has happened, sir; and I blame myself,” said he.

“Something wrong with the car,” I asked quickly.

“Something out of the car, sir,” he amended. “The main shaft of the change-speed gear.”

“Impossible!” said I. “A car can’t go along dropping her gearing, as a woman drops her purse!”

“No, sir. But she can, so to speak, have her pocket picked. After all that’s come and gone, I ought to have kept my eyes open.”

“Out with it, my good chap,” said I; “don’t try to break it to us.”