Russian

Available on alibris.com
( 4.7/5.0 ★ | 193 downloads )
-- Click the link to download --

https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&offerid=1494105.26
539780316420389&type=15&murl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2
Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780316420389
Russian

ISBN: 9780316420389
Category: Media > Books
File Fomat: PDF, EPUB, DOC...
File Details: 12.1 MB
Language: English
Website: alibris.com
Short description: Good condition book with a firm cover and clean
readable pages. Shows normal use including some light wear or limited
notes highlighting yet remains a dependable copy overall. Supplemental
items like CDs or access codes may not be included.

DOWNLOAD: https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&
offerid=1494105.26539780316420389&type=15&murl=http%3A%2F%2F
www.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780316420389
 Russian

• Click the link: https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&offerid=1494105.2653978031642038

9&type=15&murl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780316420389 to do
latest version of Russian in multiple formats such as PDF, EPUB, and more.

• Don’t miss the chance to explore our extensive collection of high-quality resources, books, and guides on
our website. Visit us regularly to stay updated with new titles and gain access to even more valuable
materials.
.
coloured handkerchief on his head, was groaning.
“What a night! My God, what a night!” Quentin heard him say.
“What! Didn’t you sleep, Don Paco?”
“Not a minute. But you slept like a log.”
“Well, let’s be going.”
They got up, and picked the straw off their clothes, like feathers from a
goose.
They left the farm. It was a superb day. When they drew near the
Cementerio de la Salud, they descended to the river, and traversing the
Alameda del Corregidor, between the Seminary and the Arabian mill, they
came out at the bridge gate.
“This afternoon at the Casino,” said Don Paco, who once within the city
was beginning to regain his presence of mind.
“At what time?”
“At dusk.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Now you see what one does for one’s ideas,” said Don Paco in the
Casino. “One sacrifices one’s self for the Revolution, and for the Country;
one faces the odium of the Moderates for years and years; one exposes
one’s self to all the dangers imaginable; and even then they do not count
one among the founders. They speak of Olózaga, of Sagasta.... I tell you it
is an outrage.”
“Hello, Don Paco,” greeted Quentin. “Are you all rested from your bad
night?”
“Yes. Let us interview those men.”
“Whenever you wish.”
“Let us go now.”
“Where do we have to go?”
“To the house of the Count of Doña Mencia. The Junta is meeting there.”
The Count lived in one of the central streets of Cordova. They entered
the vestibule and rang. A servant opened the gate and accompanied them to
the main floor, to a large hall with a panelled ceiling, and illuminated by
two wax candles. On the walls were highly polished portraits, in enormous,
heavily carved frames. A young man with a black beard greeted Don Paco
and Quentin, and conducted them into an office where eight or ten persons
were seated.
These men did not interrupt their conversation at the entrance of the new
comers, but went on talking: the Revolution was spreading throughout all
Andalusia; the Revolutionary troops were marching on Cordova....
Don Paco heard this news, and then spoke to one of the gentlemen about
his conversation with Pacheco. This gentleman came up to Quentin and
said:
“Tell Pacheco that he can rest easy as far as I am concerned. I shall do all
in my power to keep them from apprehending him.”
“Do you hear what the Count of Doña Mencia says?” Don Paco asked
Quentin.
“Yes, but it is not enough,” replied Quentin, who felt profoundly irritated
upon hearing that name. “I went to see Pacheco because Don Paco told me
that he could be useful to you in organizing the people. Whether or not my
friend has power, I do not know; what I do know is this, that Pacheco, in
order to come to Cordova, makes the condition that you gentlemen must
give your word that he will not be arrested, and that they will play no tricks
on him. Now you may find out whether that suits you or not.”
The violent tone employed by Quentin surprised the gentlemen of the
Junta; some of them protested, but the Count went over to the protestants
and spoke to them in a low voice. They discussed Pacheco’s proposition;
some said that such complicity with a bandit was dishonourable; others
were merely concerned with whether he would be useful or not. Finally
they made up their minds, and one of them came up to Quentin and said:
“You may tell your friend,” and the man emphasized the word, “that he
will not be molested in Cordova.”
“Do you all hold yourselves responsible for him?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Good afternoon.”
Quentin inclined his head slightly, left the office, crossed the hall, and
went into the street. He made his way to El Cuervo’s tavern, where he told
the landlord to let Señor José know that he could come to Cordova with
absolute safety.
 CHAPTER XXX

PROJECTS

I
T was very convenient for Quentin to have Pacheco in Cordova. The
latter carried on the conspiracy as smoothly as silk; he had come to an
understanding with the secretary of the Count of Doña Mencia, who was
expecting to contribute the money realized from a sale of some
Government bonds in Madrid. It was also convenient for Quentin to have
Pacheco agitate the people; if the agitation was successful, he would profit
by it; if not, he would peacefully retire.
Some days later, Quentin had not yet arisen when Pacheco presented
himself at his house. María Lucena’s mother opened the door and
conducted him into the bedroom.
“Don’t get up,” said Pacheco. “Stay right in bed.”
“What’s doing? What brings you here?”
“I came this early because I did not want to meet any one in the streets;
it might prove to be a provocation. I talked with one of the members of the
Junta, and he assured me again that I have no need to be afraid, that they
will not arrest me; then he asked me if I had any plan, any project, and I
told him that I couldn’t explain as yet. Understand? Now the result is that
some of them think that I have the Revolution all prepared.”
“That’s funny,” said Quentin.
“What shall I do?”
“The first thing you ought to do, is to get that money from the Count.”
“They are going to give it to me this week.”
“Good; then go on buying arms and organizing a following.”
“Right in Cordova?”
“Yes; but without showing yourself in the streets; let every man stay in
his house. We must figure out our strength, and wait for the proper
opportunity.”
“And then—”
 “Then, circumstances will tell us what to do. If it suits us to start a row
now, why we’ll start it; if we have to shoot a few guns in the streets
tomorrow, why, we’ll shoot them. Nobody knows what may happen. The
troops are out there on the bridge, and messages and letters and packages
come and go. The idea in the city is to be strong, and to keep hidden.”
“So I must go ahead and recruit?”
“Of course.”
“All right. I’m living outside of the town now, in a hut on the Campo de
la Verdad; you see I don’t like to stay in the city.”
“You have done well.”
“The house faces the river, and has a horseshoe over the vestibule. Come
and see me tomorrow.”
“At what time?”
“In the afternoon.”
“I’ll be there.”
During the subsequent days, Quentin went every afternoon to Pacheco’s
house in the Campo de la Verdad; sat down in a cloth-bottomed rocking-
chair; put his feet on the window sill, and smoked his pipe.
He listened to the conversation, and gazed indifferently at the town.
Through his half-closed eyes he saw the half-ruined gate of the bridge;
beyond, and above it, rose the grey walls of the Mosque, with their serrated
battlements; above these walls hung the dark cupola of the cathedral, and
the graceful tower rose glistening in the sun, with the angel on its peak
inlayed in the huge sapphire of the sky.
On one side of the bridge, the Alcázar garden displayed its tall, dark
cypresses, and its short shrub-like orange trees; then the Roman Wall, grey,
spotted with the dusty green of parasite weeds, continued toward the left,
and stretched on, cut here and there by cubes of rock, as far as the
Cementerio de la Salud.
On the other side, the houses of the Calle de la Ribera formed a semi-
circle, following the horseshoe bend of the river, which flowed on as though
trying to undermine the town.
These houses, which were reflected in the surface of the river—a serpent
of ever changing colour—were small, grey, and crooked. Upon their walls,
which were continuously calcined by the sun, grew dark-coloured ivy;
between their garden walls blossomed prickly pears with huge intertwined
and pulpy leaves; and from their patios and corrals peeped the cup-shaped
tops of cypress trees and the branches of silver-leafed fig trees.
Their roofs were grey, dirty, heaped one above the other; with azoteas,
look-outs, and little towers; a growth of hedge mustard converted some of
them into green meadows.
Beyond these houses the broken line of the roofs of the town was
silhouetted against the crystal blue sky. This line was interrupted here and
there by a tower, and reached as far as the river, where it ended in a few
blue and rose houses near the Martos mill.
Some bell or other was clanging almost continuously. Quentin listened to
them sleepily and drowsily, watching the hazy sky, and the river of ever-
changing colour.
Pacheco’s house had a room with a window that looked out on the other
side: upon a little square where a few tramps peacefully sunned themselves.
Among them was one who interested Quentin. This fellow wore a red
kerchief on his head, side-burns that reached the tips of his ears, and a large,
ragged sash. He used to sit on a stone bench, and, his face resting in his
hand, would study the actions and movements of a cock with flame-
coloured plumage.
This observer of the cock was at the same time the pedagogue of the
feathered biped, which must have had its serious difficulties, to judge by the
reflective attitude which the man struck at times.
Quentin listened to what they said in the meetings that went on about
him.
How far away his thoughts were in some instances! From time to time,
Pacheco, or one of the conspirators put a question to him which he
answered mechanically. His silence was taken for reflection.
Quentin excited the bandit’s self-esteem. He was waiting for the time
when they would get the Count’s money so that he could take his share and
skip off to Madrid. He did not wish this intention of his to become known,
so he gave the bandit to understand that he wanted the money for
revolutionary purposes only.
Every day Quentin played at the Casino and lost. He had bad luck. He
had become tied up with money-lenders and was signing I. O. U.’s at eighty
percent, with the healthy intention of never paying them.
After conferring with all the rowdies that came to see him, Pacheco
consulted with Quentin. The bandit had romantic aspirations; at night he
read books which narrated the stories of great battles; this stirred him up,
and made him believe that he was a man born for a great purpose.
“Do you know what I’ve been thinking?” Pacheco said one afternoon to
Quentin.
“What?”
“That if I have my people organized beforehand in order to win the
battle of Alcolea, I shall become master of the town.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Quentin told him. “You aren’t strong enough for
that.”
“No? You’ll see. I have more followers in the city than you think I
have.”
“But you have no arms.”
“Wait until the Count’s money comes—it won’t be long now.”
“Are you going to oppose the troops?”
“The troops will join us.”
“Then what? What are you going to do then?”
“If I win,—proclaim the Republic.”
Quentin looked closely at Pacheco.
“The poor man,” he thought, “he has gone mad with the idea of
greatness.”
At this moment El Taco, a corrupt individual who had been made
Pacheco’s lieutenant, came in to say that some men were waiting for him
below.
“I’ll be back,” said the bandit.
Quentin was left alone.
“That chap is going to do something foolish,” he murmured, “and the
worst of it is, he’s going to break up my combination. I mustn’t leave him
alone for a minute until I get hold of that money. Suppose he keeps it here,
and then they shoot him in the street? Good-bye cash! How does one prove
that money belongs to one? I could ask him for a key to this room, but he
might get suspicious, and I don’t want him to do that. Let’s have a look at
that key.”
Quentin went to the door; the key was small, and the lock new; doubtless
Pacheco himself had put it on.
“I’ve got to take an impression of it,” said Quentin to himself.
The next day he presented himself at Pacheco’s house with two pieces of
white wax in his pocket. He listened to the discussions and intrigues of the
conspirators as usual, stretched out in his armchair. When he noticed that
they were about to go, he said to the bandit:
“By the way, comrade, let me have a little paper and ink, I want to do a
little writing.”
“All right; here you are. We’re going to El Cuervo’s tavern. We’ll wait
for you there.”
Quentin sat down and made a pretence at writing, but noticed that some
one had stayed behind. It was El Taco. He went on writing meaningless
words, but El Taco still remained in the room. Annoyed and impatient,
Quentin got up.
“I’ve forgotten my tobacco,” he said; “is there a shop near here?”
“Yes, right near.”
“I’m going to buy a box.”
“I’ll bring you one.”
“Good.” Quentin produced a peseta and gave it to El Taco. The moment
the man had left the room, he kneaded the wax between his fingers until he
had softened it, took out the key, and made the impression. He was
softening the other piece of wax, in case the first had come out badly, when
he heard El Taco’s footsteps skipping up the stairs. Quentin quickly inserted
the key in the lock and sat down at the table. He went on pretending to
write, thrust the paper in the envelope, and left the house. El Taco locked
the door.
“Let’s go to El Cuervo’s tavern,” said Quentin.
They crossed the bridge and entered the tavern.
There they found, seated in a group, Cornejo, now recovered from his
beating, Currito Martín, Carrahola, El Rano, two or three unknown men,
and a ferocious individual whom they called El Ahorcado (The Hanged
Man), because, strange as it may seem, he had been officially hung by an
executioner. This man had a terrible history. Years ago, he had been the
proprietor of a store near Despeñaperros. One night a man, apparently
wealthy, came into the store. El Ahorcado and his wife murdered the
traveller to rob him, only to discover that their victim was their own son,
who had gone to America in his childhood, and there enriched himself.
Condemned to death, El Ahorcado went to the gallows; but the apparatus of
the executioner failed to work in the orthodox manner, and he was
pardoned. He was sent to Ceuta where he completed his sentence, and then
returned to Cordova.
El Ahorcado had the names of those in his district who were affiliated
with Pacheco, and he read them by placing one hand on his throat—the
only way in which he could emit sounds.
“Now then, let’s have the list,” said Pacheco.
El Ahorcado began to read.
“Argote.”
“He’s a good one: a man with hair on his chest,” commented Currito.
“Matute, El Mochuelo, Pata al Hombro,” continued El Ahorcado, “El
Mocarro.”
“He’s got the biggest nose in Cordova,” interrupted Currito, “and has to
wipe it on his muffler, because handkerchiefs aren’t big enough.”
Thus the list of names went on, with Currito’s responding commentary.
“El Penducho.”
“Good fellow.”
“Cuco Pavo, El Cimborrio.”
“There’s a man who cleans his face with a used stocking, and dirties the
stocking by doing it.”
“Malpicones, Ojancos.”
“He’s a money-lender who loans at a thousand percent.”
“Muñequitas, La Madamita.”
“They’re from Benamejí.”
“They just got out of the Carraca prison,” said El Rano.
“El Poyato.”
“Now we’re coming to the sweepings,” interrupted Currito.
 “Don’t you believe it,” replied El Ahorcado, “El Poyato is no frog; and
even if the wheat does hit him in the chest when he walks through the
fields, he is a very brave man.”
“That’s right,” said Carrahola, defending a small man from a sense of
comradeship.
“Boca Muerta,” continued El Ahorcado. “El Zurrio, Cantarote, Once
Dedos.”
“That chap has one arm longer than the other, and an extra finger on it,”
said Currito.
“Ramos Léchuga.”
“He’s a great big good-for-nothing,” said one.
“And very soft mouthed,” replied another.
“What about women?” asked Pacheco.
“They are put down on this other paper,” answered El Ahorcado. “La
Canasta, La Bardesa, La Cachumba....”
“There’s a fine bunch of old aunties for you,” said Currito with a laugh.
“La Cometa, La Saltacharcos, La Chirivicha....”
“That’s very good,” said Pacheco. “Within three days you may come
here and get your money.”
Quentin understood by this that the bandit was sure of getting hold of the
money by that time. He left the tavern, and inquired at the Lodge for
Diagasio’s hardware shop. It was in a street near La Corredera. He called on
the long-handed individual, and, taking him into a corner very mysteriously,
told him what he wanted.
“I’ll give you the key tomorrow in the Lodge.”
Quentin pressed the hardware merchant’s hand, and went home.
 CHAPTER XXXI

NIGHT AND DAY

T
WO evenings later, Quentin was in the Café del Recreo. His streak of
bad luck at the Casino continued. María Lucena was talking to
Springer: Quentin was smoking, and thoughtfully contemplating the
ceiling. Very much bored, he rose to his feet, with the intention of
going to bed.
In the street he met the clerk, Diego Palomares, who was going in the
same direction.
“What’s doing, Palomares?” he said.
“Nothing. I’m living a dull and stupid life.”
“I too.”
“You? What you have done is to understand life as few people can.
While I....”
“Why, what’s the matter with you?”
“You are a revolutionist, aren’t you?” said Palomares. “Well, if you ever
take up arms against the rich, call on me. I’ll go with all my heart, even to
the extent of making them cough up their livers. There are nothing but rich
men and poor men in this world, say what you will of your Progressists and
Moderates. Ah! The blackguards!”
“Have they done anything to you at the store?”
“Not just now; but they have been for many years. Twenty years
working as if it were my own business, and helping them to get rich; they in
opulence, and me with thirty dollars a month. And that man, just because he
saw me take home a chicken to my sick girl, said to me: ‘I see that you are
living like a prince.’ Curse him! Would to God he had sunk in the ocean!”
Palomares had been drinking, and with the excitement of the alcohol, he
exposed the very depths of his soul.
“You are terrible,” said Quentin.
 “You think I’m a coward! No; I have a wife and three small children ...
and I’m already decrepit.... Believe me, we should unite against them, and
wish them death. Yes sir! Here’s what I say: the coachman should overturn
his master’s carriage, the labourer should burn the crops, the shepherd
should drive his flock over a precipice, the clerk should rob his employer—
even the wet nurses should poison their milk.”
“You’re all twisted, Palomares.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I thought you were a sheep, and you are almost, almost a
wolf.”
“Why, there are some days when I would like to set fire to the whole
town. Then I’d stay outside with a gun and shoot anybody who tried to
escape.”
“The tortoise will get there,” remarked Quentin.
He said good-bye to Palomares, and went home. As he opened the door
and stepped into the entryway, he heard some one weeping sadly. Attracted
by the wails, he went through the corridor, crossed a patio, and asked in a
loud voice:
“What’s the matter?”
A door opened, and a weeping woman with disheveled hair came out
with a lamp in her hand. In a voice choked with sobs, she told Quentin that
her two-year-old son had died, that her husband was not in town, and that
she had no money with which to buy a casket.
“Would you like to see the boy, Señorito?”
Quentin entered a small whitewashed room; the boy’s body lay on a
mattress across the table.
“How much do you need to bury him?” asked Quentin.
“A couple of dollars.”
“I’ll see if I have them. If not, we’ll pawn something from my house.”
Quentin went back through the patio followed by the woman; and the
two climbed up to the main floor. Quentin lit the lamp, and went through all
the drawers. He found four dollars in María Lucena’s bureau, and gave
them to the woman. This done, he closed the door and got into bed.... The
voices of María Lucena and her mother awakened him.
 “There were four dollars here,” cried the actress. “Who took them?”
“I took them,” said Quentin calmly.
“Eh?”
“Yes. One of our neighbours was crying because her baby boy had died
and she could not buy him a casket; so I gave them to her. I’ll return them
to you tomorrow.”
“That’s it. That’s fine,” said the actress. “Give that woman the money I
earn.”
“Am I not telling you that I will return them to you?”
“Little that woman cares for her baby,” screamed María.
“She’s probably buying drinks with the money by this time,” added her
mother.
“Señoras,” said Quentin, sitting up in bed, “I find you absolutely
repulsive.”
“You are the one who is repulsive,” screeched the old woman.
“Very well; the thing to do now is to get out of this den of harpies; they
are beginning to smell.”
“Well, son; get out, and never come back,” cried María.
Quentin dressed rapidly, and put on his boots and his hat.
“Well; give me the key.”
“I give the key to no one,” rejoined the actress.
“See here, don’t you exhaust my patience, or I’ll give you a thumping.”
When the old woman heard this, thrusting her face close to Quentin’s,
she began to insult him, shaking her hands in his face.
“Rowdy!” she said, “you’re an indecent rowdy. A fandango-dancing
rowdy!”
“Hush, ancient Canidia,” said Quentin, pushing the old woman away
from him, “and get you gone to your laboratory.”
“Don’t you call my mother names; do you hear?”
“Nobody can call me names.”
“Well: will you give me the key or won’t you?” asked Quentin.
“No.”
 Quentin went to the balcony window and opened it wide. He jumped to
the other side of the railing, hung by his wrists, felt for the grated window
of the floor below, and dropped to the sidewalk.
“Until—never!” he called from the street.
He had blood on his cheek from one of the old woman’s scratches. He
washed at a fountain, dried himself on his handkerchief, and went to the
Casino. He went through a door on the right, and entered a large salon
which was lined with enormous mirrors.
A sleepy waiter approached him.
“Do you wish something, Don Quentin?” he asked.
“Yes; put out that light as if there were no one here.”
“Are you going to stay here?”
“Yes.”
“But that is not allowed.”
“Bah! What’s the difference?”
The lights were put out, and, after a little, Quentin fell asleep on the
divan.
Two waiters in coarse, white aprons awoke Quentin. One was placing
the chairs upon the tables, and the other was cleaning the divans with a mop
and brush.
“Have you been asleep, Señorito?” said one of them with a laugh.
“Yes; what time is it?”
“Very early. Do you know that there is a great hub-bub in the streets?”
“What is happening?”
“Pacheco has entered Cordova with a gang of toughs, and they are all
running through these God-forsaken streets yelling and rioting.”
Quentin jumped up. There was a bucket of water on the floor.
“Is it clean?” he asked the waiters.
“Yes.”
Quentin kneeled on the floor and ducked himself twice. The waiters
laughed, thinking that it was all from the effects of a convivial evening.
“Now my head is clear,” said Quentin.
 “I’ll bring you a towel,” announced one of the boys. Quentin dried
himself, and went into the street.
He walked rapidly toward Las Tendillas, where he found great
excitement, and heard all sorts of comments and gossip. He asked a man
where Pacheco was.
“He’s near the Plaza de la Trinidad now.”
Quentin ran on, opening a path through the crowd with his elbows.
“The man is an idiot,” he thought. “Could he have imagined that he was
really going to head the Revolution?”
After a hard struggle, Quentin could see two horsemen riding at the head
of the rabble. One of them was Pacheco; the other was his brother.
“Long live Liberty! Long live the Revolution!” shouted the bandit,
waving his arm.
The crowd echoed his cry with enthusiasm, and added:
“Long live the second Prim! Long live General Pacheco!”
“Why, the man is crazy,” murmured Quentin. “I wonder if he’s got the
money yet?” Then he thought—“Suppose he has it with him? He’s fixed me
if he has.”
Quentin continued to advance, digging right and left with his elbows, in
order to get near enough to speak with Pacheco. Suddenly he heard the
sound of a shot, and immediately after, almost instantaneously, another; a
bit of smoke came from one of the screened windows of the Trinidad
barracks.
The crowd drew back, terrified; people began to run pell-mell, and in the
alleyways the noise made by the heels of those who fled sounded like a
squadron of horses at a gallop. Quentin was forced to take refuge in a
doorway in order to keep from being trampled. Several other persons also
pushed their way into the same place.
“What happened?” they asked one another.
“They are beginning to shoot, and there’s a great rumpus yonder.”
Another who had just arrived, said:
“They’ve killed Pacheco.”
“Did you see it?” asked Quentin.
 “Sí, Señor. I was going by without knowing what was up, when I saw
Pacheco fall. His brother jumped from his horse, leaned over the corpse,
and said, weeping: ‘He is dead.’ ”
Quentin went into the street.
“If that fellow had the money in his pocket, there is no way of getting it.
I’ll have to explain where it came from.... But if it is still at his house?—
Cristo! I mustn’t waste any time.”
He reached the Gran Capitán in a hurry, and took a carriage. “To the
Mosque,” he said, “and hurry.” The coachman left him at one of the doors
of the cathedral.
“Wait for me,” Quentin instructed him, “I shall be some time.” He
jumped from the carriage, went through the church, rushed like a cannon
ball through the Patio de los Naranjos, went down by the Triunfo Column,
crossed the bridge, and entered Pacheco’s house. He took out the key which
Diagasio, the Mason, had made for him, and opened the door.
The bed was untouched; he looked through the little night stand, and
found nothing; then he went to the table, took out his penknife and removed
the lock from the drawer. Upon some books lay a Russian leather
pocketbook, tied with a ribbon. He opened it; there were the bills. He did
not count them.
“I am the favourite of Chance,” said he, smiling.
He closed the door, crossed the bridge, and threw the key into the river.
The news evidently had not reached that part of the city, for the people were
quiet, and there were no gossiping groups. Quentin went up by the Triunfo,
again traversed the Patio de los Naranjos, then the church, and got into the
carriage.
“To the Gran Capitán,” he said.
By this time the news was spread all over the city; the old wives were
shouting it to each other from door to door, and from window to window.
“Where can I leave this money with safety?” Quentin asked himself.
Whomever he trusted would be apt to ask indiscreet questions. His
stepfather? Impossible. Palomares, perhaps? But Palomares, in his
indignation against the rich, would be likely to keep the money. Señora
Patrocinio? She would probably be angry at him. Springer? He was the
best.
 “I’ll go to his house,” he thought; and he gave the coachman the address
of the Swiss watch-maker.
 CHAPTER XXXII

THE CITY OF THE DISCREET

S
PRINGER was somewhat taken aback when he saw Quentin enter his
store, and he rose to his feet and said, turning a trifle pale:
“I can imagine why you have come.”
“You can? It would be rather hard. But first do me the favour of giving
me a few pesetas with which to pay the coachman.”
The Swiss opened a drawer and gave him two dollars. Quentin paid the
coachman, and returned to the watch store.
“Boy,” he said to his friend, “I came here because you are the only
trustworthy person I know.”
“Thanks,” said Springer sourly.
“I would like you to keep a large amount of money for me,” continued
Quentin as he held out the pocketbook.
“How much is it?”
“I don’t know, I’m going to see.”
Quentin opened the purse and began counting the bills.
“Before you place this trust in me,” said the Swiss with the air of a man
making a violent decision, “I have something to tell you—as a loyal friend.
Something that may annoy you.”
“What is it?” asked Quentin, fearing that the low trick he had played on
the Count of Doña Mencia had become known in the city.
“María Lucena and I have come to an understanding—I cannot deceive a
true friend like you....”
Quentin gazed in astonishment at the Swiss, and seeing him so affected,
felt like bursting into laughter; but laughter seemed improper under the
circumstances.
“I’m glad you told me,” he said gravely. “I was thinking of leaving
Cordova, and now, knowing this, I shall go as soon as possible.”
“And it will not cool your friendship?”
 “Not in the least.”
Springer affectionately pressed his friend’s hand.
“Well, will you keep this money for me?”
“Yes; give it to me.”
The Swiss placed the bills in an envelope.
“What must I do with it?”
“I’ll let you know; I shall probably tell you to send it to me in Madrid in
various quantities.”
“Good; it shall be done.”
The Swiss climbed the spiral staircase that went from the back room to
the main floor, and returned presently, saying:
“I’ve put it away.”
They were chatting together, when Springer’s father entered hurriedly.
“There’s a riot in the town,” he announced from the door.
“Is there? What is going on?”
“They have killed a bandit ... Pacheco, I think they told me his name
was.”
“Your friend. Did you know it?” the Swiss asked Quentin.
“No,” he answered calmly. “He must have done something foolish.”
“Let’s ask about it in the streets.”
The father and son and Quentin went out to Las Tendillas. They passed
from group to group, listening to the comments, and at one of them where
there seemed to be a well-informed gentleman, they stopped.
“How did his death occur?” asked Springer’s father.
“Well, like this. Pacheco entered by the bridge, and crossed the city till
he reached the barracks in the Plaza de la Trinidad, where it seems that the
General, when he noticed the riot and uproar, and when he heard them shout
‘Long live General Pacheco!’ asked: ‘Who is that fellow they call General?
I’m the only General here. ‘It’s Pacheco,’ a lieutenant answered. ‘The
people are calling him a General of Liberty.’—‘The bandit?’—‘Sí, Señor.’
Then the General, seeing that the crowd was coming toward the barracks,
ordered two soldiers to take their posts with their guns sticking through the
cracks in the shutters. When Pacheco came opposite the barracks, he
shouted several times: ‘Long live Liberty! Long live the Revolution!’
instantly two shots rang out, and the man fell from his horse, dead.”
All listened to the story, and after it was finished there was a series of
remarks.
“That was treachery,” said one.
“A trap they set for him.”
“They’ve wickedly deceived that man.”
“Deceived him? Why?” Springer’s father asked of a man in a blouse
who had just made the assertion.
“Because they had promised him a pardon,” replied he of the blouse.
“Everybody knows that.”
“But promising a pardon, and entering the city the way he did—like a
conqueror—are two very different things,” rejoined the watch-maker.
“This is going to make a big noise,” replied the man.
They returned to the watch-maker’s shop, and as the other stores were
closed, the Swiss closed his also.
“Would you like to dine with us?” said Springer to Quentin.
“Indeed I should!”
They climbed the spiral stairs to the floor above, and Springer presented
Quentin to his mother; a pleasant woman, thin, smiling, very active and
vivacious.
They dined; after dinner, the three men lit their pipes, and Springer’s
father spoke enthusiastically of his home town.
“My town is a great place,” he said to Quentin with a smile.
“What is it?”
“Zurich. Ah! If you could see it!...”
“But father, he has seen Paris and London.”
“Oh! That makes no difference. I’ve known many people from Paris and
Vienna who were astounded when they saw Zurich.”
Springer’s father and mother, though they had been in Cordova for over
thirty years, did not speak Spanish very well.
What a difference there was between that home, and the house where
Quentin had lived with María Lucena and her mother! Here there was no
talk of marquises, or counts, or actors, or toreadors, or ponies; their only
subjects of conversation were work, improvements in industry, art, and
music.
“So you are leaving us?” asked Springer’s father.
“Yes. This place is dead,” replied Quentin.
“No, no—not that,” replied the younger Springer. “It isn’t dead; Cordova
is merely asleep. All the kings have punished it. Its natural, its own
civilization has been suppressed, and they have endeavoured to substitute
another for it. And even to think that a town can go on living prosperously
with ideas contrary to its own, and under laws contrary to its customs and
instincts, is an outrage.”
“My dear lad,” rejoined Quentin rather cynically, “I don’t care about the
cause for it all. What I know is that one cannot live here.”
“That is the truth,” asserted the older Springer. “One can attempt nothing
new here, because it will turn out badly. No one does his part in throwing
off this inertia. No one works.”
“Don’t say that, father.”
“What your father says, is right,” continued Quentin “and not only is that
true, but the activity of the few who do work, annoys and often offends
those who do nothing. For instance: I, who have done nothing so far but
live like a rowdy, have friends and even admirers. If I had devoted myself
to work, everybody would look upon me as a good-for-nothing, and from
time to time, secretly, they would place a stone in my way for me to
stumble over.”
“No, it would not be a stone,” said Springer, “it would be a grain of
sand.”
“Still more outrageous,” rejoined Quentin.
“No,” added his friend, “because it would not be done with malice.
These people, like nearly all Spaniards, are living an archaic life. Every one
here is surrounded by an enormous cloud of difficulties. The people are all
dead, and their brains are not working. Spain is a body suffering from
anchylosis of the joints; the slightest movement causes great pain;
consequently, in order to progress, she will have to proceed slowly,—not by
leaps.”
“But among all this rabble of lawyers and soldiers and priests and pawn-
brokers, do you believe there is one person who is the least bit sane?” asked
Quentin.
“I think not,” the father broke in. “There are no elements of progress
here; there are no men who are pushing on, as there are in my country.”
“I think there are,” replied his son; “but those who are, and they stand
alone, end by not seeing the reality of things, and even turn pernicious. It is
as if in our shop here, we found the wheel of a tower clock among the
wheels of pocket watches. It would be no good at all to us; it would not be
able to fit in with any other wheel. Take the Marquis of Adarve, who was a
good and intelligent man; well, now he passes for a half-wit, and he is,
partly—because as a reaction against the others, he reached the other
extreme. He carries an automatic umbrella, a mechanical cigar-case, and a
lot of other rare trifles. The people call him a madman.”
“All you have to be here,” said the older Springer, “is either a farmer or a
money-lender.”
“The vocations in which you don’t have to work,” Quentin asserted.
“The Spaniard’s ideal is: to work like a Moor, and to earn money like a Jew.
That is also my ideal,” he said for his own benefit.
“As we were saying before,” added the younger Springer; “it is an
archaic life, directed by romantic, hidalguesque ideas....”
“Ah, no!” replied Quentin. “You are absolutely wrong there. There is
none of your romance, nor of your hidalgos; it is prose, pure prose. There is
more romance in the head of one Englishman, than in the heads of ten
Spaniards, especially if those Spaniards are Andalusians. They are very
discreet, friend Springer; we are very discreet, if you like that better. A great
deal of eloquence, a lot of enthusiastic and impetuous talk, a great deal of
flourish; a superficial aspect of ingenuous and candid confusion; but back
of it all, a sure, straight line. Men and women;—most discreet. Believe me!
There is exaltation without, and coldness within.”
It was time to work, and the two Springers went down to their shop.
“Do you see?” said the Swiss to Quentin, as he sat in his chair and
fastened his lens to his eye, “perhaps you are right in what you say, but I
like to think otherwise. I am romantic, and like to imagine that I am living
among hidalgos and fine ladies.... There you have me—a poor Swiss
plebeian. And I am so accustomed to it, that when I go away from Cordova,
I immediately feel homesick for my shop, my books, and the little concerts
my mother and I have in which we play Beethoven and Mozart.”
 Quentin gazed at Springer as at a strange and absurd being, and began to
walk up and down the store. Suddenly he paused before his friend.
“Listen,” he said. “Do you think that I could deceive you, give you
disloyal advice through interest or evil passion?”
“No; what do you mean by that?”
“Don’t compromise yourself with María Lucena.”
“Why?”
“Because she is a perverse woman.”
“That’s because you hate her.”
“No; I know her because I have lived with her without the slightest
feeling of affection; and even so she was more selfish and cold than I was.
She is a woman who thinks she has a heart because she has sex. She weeps,
laughs, appears to be good, seems ingenuous: sex. Like some lascivious and
cruel animal, in her heart she hates the male. If you approach her candidly,
she will destroy your life, she will alienate you from your father and
mother, she will play with you most cruelly.”
“Do you really believe that?” asked the Swiss.
“Yes, it is the truth, the pure truth. Now,” Quentin added, “if you are like
a stone in a ravine, that can only fall, you will fall; but if you can defend
yourself, do so. And now—farewell!”
“Farewell, Quentin; I shall think over what you have told me.”

Quentin put up at one of the inns on the Paseo del Gran Capitán. He
intended to leave the city as soon as he possibly could.
Accordingly, that night after supper, he left the house and walked toward
the station; but as he crossed the Victoria, he noticed that four persons were
following him. He returned quickly, as he did not care to enter any
lonesome spots when followed by that gang, and took refuge in the inn.
Who could be following him? Perhaps it was Pacheco’s brother. Perhaps
one of his creditors. He must be on his guard. His room at the inn happened
to be in an admirably strategic situation. It was on the lower floor, and had a
grated window that looked out upon the Paseo.
The next day Quentin was able to prove that Pacheco’s friends were
constantly watching the inn. Their number was frequently augmented by the
money-lenders who came to ask for Quentin.
In the daytime, he did not mind going into the street, but when night fell,
he locked his room, and placed a wardrobe against the door. Quentin was
afraid that his last adventure might result fatally for him.
“I’ve got to get out of here. There are no two ways about it; and I’ve got
to get out quietly.”
One day after the battle of Alcolea, Quentin was being followed and
spied upon by Pacheco’s men, when as he passed the City Hall, Diagasio
the hardware dealer, who was standing in the doorway, said:
“Don Paco is upstairs.”
Quentin climbed the stairs, slipped through an open door, and beheld the
terrible Don Paco surrounded by several friends, up to his old tricks.
The revolutionist had ordered the head porter to take down a portrait of
Isabella II, painted by Madrazo, which occupied the centre of one wall.
After heaping improprieties and insults upon the portrayed lady, much to
the astonishment and stupefaction of the poor porter, Don Paco had a
ferocious idea; an idea worthy of a drinker of blood.
He produced a penknife from his vest pocket, and handing it to the
porter and pointing to the portrait, said:
“Cut off her head.”
“I?” stammered the porter.
“Yes.”
The poor man trembled at the idea of committing such a profanation.
“But, for God’s sake, Don Paco! I have children!”
“Cut off her head,” repeated the bold revolutionist contumaciously.
“See here, Don Paco, they say that this portrait is very well painted.”
“Impossible,” replied Don Paco, with a gesture worthy of Saint-Just. “It
was executed by a servile artist.”
Then the porter, moaning and groaning, buried the penknife in the
canvas, and split it with a trembling hand.
At that moment several persons entered the hall, among them Paul
Springer.
“Are you playing surgeon, Don Paco?” asked the Swiss with a mocking
smile.
 “Sí, Señor; one must strike kings in the head.”
After cutting the canvas, the porter took the piece in his hand, and
hesitatingly asked Don Paco:
“Now what will I do with it?”
“Take that head,” roared Don Paco in a harsh voice, “to the President of
the Revolutionary Junta.”
Quentin looked at the Swiss and saw him smile ironically.
“How do you like this execution in effigy of yonder chubby Marie
Antoinette?”
“Magnificent.”
“Just as I said. We are the City of the Discreet.”
The two friends bid each other good-bye with a laugh, and Quentin went
home.
 CHAPTER XXXIII

THE DEPARTURE

Q
UENTIN returned to the inn and shut himself up in his room. He
wrote a farewell article for La Víbora entitled “And this is the End.”
When night fell, he lit his lamp and sent for his supper. He ate in
his room to avoid any unpleasant encounters in the dining-room.
With his supper, the waiter brought two letters. One, by the rudely
scrawled envelope, he saw was from Pacheco’s brother. It read as follows:
If you do not return the pocketbook you found in my brother’s house,
you will not leave Cordova alive. Don’t fool yourself; you will not
escape. Every exit is watched. You can leave the money in El Cuervo’s
tavern, where some one will go and get it.
A Friend.
“Very good,” said Quentin, “let’s see the other letter.” He opened it, and
it was still more laconic than the first.
We know that you have money, and do not wish to pay. Be careful.
Various Creditors.
“Well, sir,” murmured Quentin, “a whole conspiracy of bandits and
money-lenders is plotting against me.”
It suited neither him nor the others to have the law mixed up in the affair.
The cleverest, the strongest, or he who had the most cunning, would gain
the day.
Quentin figured that he possessed those qualities to a greater degree than
his enemies; this thought calmed him a little, but in spite of it, he could not
sleep that night.
When he got up, he looked, as was his daily habit, through the windows
of his room. Directly opposite, seated upon a bench, there were several
loathsome individuals spying on him. At that very moment others took their
places. Evidently there was a relief.
After eating, Quentin left the inn. When he reached the corner of the
Calle de Gondomar, he looked cautiously behind him. Three men were
following him, though apparently unconcerned with his movements.
Quentin went down the street to Las Tendillas, turned to the left, entered the
Casino, and sat down to take his coffee near a window that looked out upon
the street.
The three individuals continued their espionage.
Quentin pretended not to see them. He seized several newspapers; and
while he appeared to be deeply engaged in reading them, he was thinking
up plans of escape and turning them over and over in his mind. The
important thing was to keep the law from interfering, that there might be no
scandal.
Don Paco, who had come in to take coffee, surprised him in this
caviling. The man was oozing joy. The Revolution was made, the most
glorious, the most humane that the centuries had ever witnessed. The entire
world, the French, the English, the Swiss, the Germans;—all envied the
Spaniards. Spain was going to be a different sort of country. Now, now, the
great conquests of Progress and Democracy would be realized: Universal
Suffrage, Freedom of Worship, Freedom of Association.
“And do you believe that all that will make life any better?” asked
Quentin coldly.
“Why, of course!” exclaimed Don Paco, astonished at the question. “I
tell you that the whole Progressist program is to be realized!”
Quentin smiled mockingly.
Don Paco continued his oration. His eternal sorrow was to see that after
what he had done for the Revolution, they did not appreciate his true worth.
While the old man discoursed, Quentin continued to ruminate on his
plans, and to absently watch his pursuers. Suddenly an idea occurred to
him.
“Well, good afternoon, Don Paco!” he said; and without another word,
he rose from his chair and left the room. He crossed the patio of the Casino,
went up a stairway, asked a waiter for the key to the terrace, waited for it a
moment, and went out upon the azotea. He could escape in that way, but
there was still the danger of his exit from the city....
“Suppose I go to El Cuervo’s tavern and leave by the convent route?” he
said to himself. “That would be admirable. Place myself in the wolf’s
mouth to make my escape! That’s just what I’ll do. I’ll wait for it to get
dark first.”
He went down to the salon again and took his place by the window. The
espionage still continued. Late in the afternoon, Carrahola and El Rano
passed along the street.
Quentin went to the door of the Casino and called to Carrahola.
“Do you mind telling me what this persecution means?” he said.
“You know better than any one else, Don Quentin,” answered Carrahola.
“You are wrong not to return that money.”
“Bah!”
“Sí, Señor; that’s the truth. Everything is guarded; the station, the roads,
—you won’t leave Cordova unless you pay.”
“Really?” asked Quentin apparently frightened.
“You hear me. So you’d better hand over that money and not expose
yourself to a stab with a dagger.”
“The devil! You very nearly convince me.”
“Do it, Don Quentin.”
“To whom shall I hand the money?”
“To Pacheco, Señor José’s brother. He goes to El Cuervo’s tavern every
night about eight o’clock.”
“I’ll think it over.”
“Don’t stop to think, my friend! You ought to take that money back right
away.”
“Well, you have persuaded me. I’ll go right away.”
Quentin made his way to the inn, followed by Carrahola and El Rano.
He entered his room, closed the window, and lit the lamp. He still had in his
pocket the pocketbook that he had found in Pacheco’s house. He took it out
and placed it on the table.
He opened the wardrobe, searched the drawers, and in one of them found
some copy paper written by a child, and in another a torn, and well-worn
catechism by Father Ripalda.
He took the copy paper and the catechism, tied them together with a
pack-thread, and thrust the package into the pocketbook which he tied up
with another bit of thread.
 “Very good,” he murmured with a smile.
This done, he put out the light, thrust the purse into his coat pocket, and
left the inn. He began to walk rapidly, as one who has made a quick
decision. He made his way to El Cuervo’s tavern, escorted by Carrahola and
El Rano.
He looked into the office, and when he saw El Cuervo, exclaimed sourly:
“Hello!”
“Hello, Don Quentin!”
“Is Pacheco’s brother here?”
“No, Señor.”
“What time will he come?”
“Oh, somewhere around eight o’clock.”
“Good. I have come to have an understanding with him, and I can’t
make up my mind whether to give him the money or a stab with a dagger.
Look here, here’s the pocketbook he’s looking for. Keep it. I’m going to
wait in here for Pacheco, because I have some letters to write.”
“Go right upstairs.”
Quentin and El Cuervo went upstairs to a room with a balcony
overlooking a patio.
“I’ll bring you some paper and ink presently,” said the landlord.
“Good. Until Pacheco comes, I do not wish to be disturbed by any one.
Do you understand?”
“Very good.”
“When he comes, call me, and he and I will come to an understanding.
But he must agree not to open the pocketbook until I am with him.”
“Never fear.”
The innkeeper went out and left Quentin alone in the room. He listened
for a moment and heard the gay voices of Carrahola and El Rano. Evidently
they were already celebrating their victory.
“Come, there’s no time to be lost,” said Quentin. Climbing to the outside
of the balcony, which was not very high, and clinging to a water pipe, he
lowered himself to the patio. This he skirted, hugging close to the wall. He
pushed open the little door, closed it noiselessly behind him, and began
slowly to climb the stairs. The steps creaked beneath his weight.
 When Quentin arrived at the top of the stairs, he saw that the door
through which he had once passed with El Cuervo, was locked. It had a
transom, which he opened, and with a superhuman effort, managed to
squeeze himself through, not without injuring one of his feet. He made a
slight noise as he jumped down.
He listened for a while to see if any one were following him. He heard
nothing. He closed the transom.
“Any one could tell where I went out,” he murmured.
He lit a match which he held in the hollow of his hand until he found the
stairway made of beam ends sticking from the wall. When he had located it,
he blew out the match, and climbed to the attic in the dark.
He lit another match and hunted for the aperture through which he and
El Cuervo had passed, but he could not find it. Looking more carefully, he
saw that it was fastened up by some boards held in place by bricks. He tore
these aside with his nails one by one then he removed the boards, and the
hole appeared.
Quentin went out on the roof. It was still light.
“Let’s get oriented,” he said to himself. “That’s the garret, which is the
first place to go.”
Stooping on all fours, he slid along until he reached it. He paused to get
his bearings again.
“Now I’ve got to cross that azotea where we abandoned Doña Sinda: it
must be that one. Here goes.”
He went on his way, jumped the balustrade on one side, then on the
other, went a little further,—and turned the wrong way. He was confused,
not knowing which way to go: whether to the right or to the left. It was
beginning to get dark, and Quentin went around and around fruitlessly,
unable to find the cornice along which he had passed with Pacheco.
Suddenly he heard the ding dong of a bell and supposing it to be that of
the convent, he followed the direction of the sound, climbed a ridge pole,
and saw beneath him the patio of a convent where several nuns were
walking to and fro.
Quentin climbed down the whole side of a roof, found the cornice, and
reached the balcony on all fours. The little window was open, and he
jumped to the stairs.
 There was a little passageway opposite, on one side of which was an
open door that led into a kitchen. It was probably the gardener’s house; in
the middle of the kitchen, seated upon the floor, was a child playing. Upon
the wall hung a dirty blouse and an old hat.
“At them!” cried Quentin.
He entered the kitchen, seized the blouse with one hand and the hat with
the other, and beat a hasty retreat. The child was frightened and began to
cry. Quentin descended the stairs into the garden, and as no one was
looking, put on the blouse, stuck the hat on his head, and went out into the
street.
He went through alley after alley in the direction of El Matadero and the
Campo de San Antón. As night fell, he was already well on his way to
Madrid.

Meanwhile in El Cuervo’s tavern, everything was excitement and merry

making. The news, divulged by Carrahola, that Quentin was there with the
money, had attracted all the ruffians who had taken part in Pacheco’s
chimerical attempt. They thought they would get paid for their services, and
El Cuervo trusted them for wine.
They awaited impatiently the arrival of Pacheco, who was later than
usual that evening. At eight-thirty he appeared.
“Pacheco! He’s come!” they all shouted at once when they saw him.
“Who?”
“Quentin. Here’s the pocketbook.”
“Did you let him go without following him?” asked the man, fearing a
trick.
“Ca!” replied El Cuervo. “He’s upstairs. He said not to open the
pocketbook until he was with you.”
“All right,” and Pacheco turned pale. “Tell him I am here.”
Pacheco knew from his brother what kind of a man Quentin was, and it
irked him. He expected a surprise, and prepared himself accordingly.
El Cuervo went up to the room where he had left Quentin, and called
several times:
“Don Quentin! Don Quentin!”
 No one answered.
“Don Quentin! Don Quentin!”
The same silence.
El Cuervo gently opened the door. The bird had flown. But where?
In response to El Cuervo’s cries, Pacheco, Carrahola, and El Taco, came
hurrying up the stairs.
“What’s the matter?” they asked.
“He’s not here.”
“That’s what I thought!” exclaimed Pacheco. “What can be in the
pocketbook? Let’s look at it.”
They descended rapidly, Pacheco cut the threads, opened the
pocketbook, and spilled upon the counter the child’s copy papers and Father
Ripalda’s catechism, worn and shabby.
A cry of rage burst from every throat.
“We must look for him,” said one, “and make him pay for this joke.”
They ran through the whole house and looked into every corner.
Nothing.
“Ah!... Now I know where he went,” said the innkeeper, “that way,”—
and he pointed to the door in the patio. He lit a lantern and examined the
steps one by one to see if there were any tracks in the dust. There was some
discussion as to whether the traces they found were Quentin’s or not, but
when they saw the closed door upstairs, nearly all of them were of the
opinion that he could not have passed that way.
“Nevertheless,” said El Cuervo, “we’ll keep on going.” He opened the
door, climbed to the attic, and saw the boards which had been torn down to
allow free passage to the roof.
“He escaped through here.”
“What can we do?” asked Pacheco.
“A very simple thing,” replied El Cuervo; “surround this whole block of
houses. He is probably waiting for it to get dark before he leaves, so
perhaps we can catch him yet.”
“Good,” said Pacheco; “let’s go downstairs right away.”
The idea seemed an admirable one to all those who were in the tavern.
Pacheco placed them on guard, and told them to warn the watchmen.