Chapter Sixteen
Moreno had declared to Violet Hargrave that he proposed to go to bed early, and wait till to-morrow for the news.
When he spoke that had been his original intention. But, as the evening drew on, he began to feel a certain restlessness stirring in him. Certain things were about to happen, or, as he hoped, to be frustrated. He could hardly compose himself to sleep under the unusual circumstances. He would go out, and form one of the undistinguished crowd that clustered round the Palace gates. If anything dramatic happened, he could not fail to be aware of it. The news would spread like wildfire.
On his arrival, he caught sight of a woman closely veiled standing close beside him. He recognised her at once. It was evident that Mrs Hargrave could no more endure to stay indoors than he could.
He moved up a few paces and spoke to her in English, practically their native tongue.
“The same sudden impulse seized both of us,” he whispered. “Well, it is a very orderly crowd. I don’t think we shall be pushed or knocked about. We shall enjoy the sight of the grandees arriving. By the way, it is a pity we were not sent an invitation, then we could have seen it from the inside.”
Violet Hargrave whispered back. “I simply couldn’t stay indoors. My nerves seem on edge to-night.”
“Mine are a bit out of time, too,” answered Moreno in a low voice.
And, while they were waiting, Moreno indulged in several philosophical reflections.
A curious and not ill-natured crowd was gathered round the Palace, something like the throng that gathers round a wedding. There was no harm in these good-humoured, laughing persons, mainly of the lower order. They were not envious of the people who went inside, these men in Court costume, these women of another world, daintily attired. They discussed and admired the good looks of the men, the exquisite costumes of the women.
If the Court Chamberlain had suddenly appeared, and in the name of their Majesties, bade them enter the Royal precincts in a spirit of perfect equality with the other guests, they would have been very embarrassed and, save for a few adventurous spirits, have declined the invitation. They would have felt out of place.
From what causes arose this antagonism amongst the clever extremists of the proletariat toward the more fortunate ones of the earth?
Moreno was puzzled to find a solution. Envy perhaps was the contributing cause. And yet the ordinary man who dines at a common eating-house is not always envious of the man who eats a sumptuous luncheon at the Ritz or Carlton. The middle-class prosperous professional man does not always gnash his teeth when he thinks of a nobleman, possibly his client, who has a rent roll of a hundred thousand a year.
Moreno was very just. There was a time when he had had to fare very frugally, and he had not complained. Things had improved. When the fancy took him, he would indulge in a good dinner, a bottle of champagne, and an excellent cigar. Was he hurting the toiling millions very much if he occasionally indulged in these luxuries? Were the few fortunate ones of the earth, and after all they were very few, hurting him if they indulged in them every day?
Night was slowly settling over the city. Far away from this scene of revel and display, some thousands of humble workers had eaten their frugal suppers, and were preparing for bed. If all the money that was to be spent upon this function had been shared between them, would they have been much the richer? Champagne, excellent cigars, and good dinners could not be given to every creature on God’s earth. That was an inexorable economic law, which no revolutionist could alter.
He was raised from his reveries by a light touch on his arm.
“Who are these two men?” It was Violet Hargrave who spoke. “Somehow, they look people of importance.”
Moreno recognised them at once, as they drove slowly through – the Chief of the Secret Service, the Head of the Police. He was glad that they were on the scene early. They might not have quite the perfect methods of the corresponding French organisations, but perhaps they would justify themselves before the night was over.
“I don’t know them from Adam, but, as you say, they certainly look persons of importance, especially the fat one.”
Always suspicious, he wondered if Mrs Hargrave was trying to draw him, herself knowing who they were. Anyway, she had failed. He was not to be caught by a leading question like that.
Then presently she nudged him. “Look, look, the Chief!”
Yes, it was Contraras, driving in a humble cab. His fine, lined face showed clear against the waning light.
“Wonderful man! The brains of sixty, the fire and energy of twenty!” said Moreno glibly. He spoke with all the enthusiasm of a true son of the Revolution.
Mrs Hargrave made no comment. Equipage after equipage rolled up, containing fair women and brave men. The Palace was one blaze of light. The crowd grew closer, enjoying the spectacle of the arriving guests, and it seemed a crowd that was at once good-humoured and appreciative, if at times critical.
Moreno turned to his companion. “I say, it’s a bit of a shame that you and I are not inside instead of here, eh? I think Contraras might have worked that while he was about it.”
Mrs Hargrave smiled back; she was very attracted by this black-browed young Spaniard.
“My dear friend, under the new régime, we shall all go to Court.”
“To the Court of Contraras, I suppose?”
“Something of that sort,” answered Violet, letting herself go a little. “And Madame Contraras, more aristocratic than any queen, will smile condescendingly, and the pretty daughter will turn up her nose at us.”
The conversation was getting dangerous. Mrs Hargrave must be checked in her impulsive moods, which, he honestly admitted, were very rare.
“Ah, if I could see dear old Contraras in that position I would die happy,” he exclaimed, with a splendid mendacity.
Mrs Hargrave stole a quiet glance at him.
“Yes, he is very wonderful, is he not? But I can’t honestly say I like his womenkind. They have no sympathy with his aspirations.”
As they were speaking, a very gorgeous carriage rolled up. It contained the Duchess del Pineda and Valerie Delmonte. The Duke had not accompanied them. He had pleaded indisposition, but probably prudence had dictated his absence. Anyway, if certain things happened, it would be possible for him to plead a successful
alibi
.
“Look, look!” cried Violet Hargrave, a little excitedly for her. “Valerie Delmonte!”
Moreno, the kindly-hearted, felt a spasm of pity as he gazed on the face of the handsome, fanatical young Frenchwoman, whom that wily old Contraras had subjugated to his evil will.
“Poor child!” he said aloud, for the benefit of his companion, “I can only hope she will not lose her nerve. It was a man’s job, but she would insist upon having it.”
There was a little lull in the procession of carriages. And then there drove up one conveying Guy Rossett and a colleague. The Ambassador had already arrived, with his wife.
Moreno stole a glance at his companion. She was heavily veiled, but he could see that her face had grown pale, that a sad look had come into her eyes.
“Our admirable young diplomatist!” whispered the young man. “Well, Madrid is not a very safe place for him.”
“But he is in no danger to-night I take it?” came back the answer in a whisper as low as his own.
“I should say not. For the present, we have left him out of our calculations; we are flying at higher game. He will hardly come within the sphere of Valerie’s operations. His Chief may – I doubt even that.”
Mrs Hargrave made no comment. Presently Moreno spoke in the same low whisper.
“You have no great affection for Mr Rossett, I take it?”
“No, I have not any great affection for Mr Rossett.”
“And yet you were once very good friends.”
Mrs Hargrave stiffened a little. “You seem to know a great deal of my private affairs. Yes, we once were very good friends. He knew my husband long before I married him. I fancy I have told you that.”
Moreno was not to be daunted by her aloof attitude. He was never wanting in enterprise.
“I should not be surprised if, at the present moment, you hated him.”
“Perhaps you are right,” was the curt answer.
Moreno indulged in a quiet inward chuckle. If she had known that Isobel Clandon was established so close to her lover, that through his adroit manipulation of affairs they were meeting every day, her hatred must have expressed itself more heartily.
Valerie Delmonte, under the wing of the unsuspecting Duchess, was now within the Palace.
She had only once before looked upon a scene approaching this, and it had been much less brilliant.
Once, early in their married life, her husband had taken her to one of the President’s receptions in Paris. It was easy, in his position, to secure the entrée for himself and wife.
She remembered that evening well. Never had she felt more humiliated. Half a dozen times kind old Monsieur Varenne had introduced her to some of his acquaintances. There was a formal bow interchanged, and nothing beyond; one and all they had sheered off. Even in a republican and democratic country, these purse-proud citizens would have nothing to do with the girl who had come from the music halls.
She recalled how, when she had reached home that night, she had burst into a fit of wild sobbing, and her kindly, elderly husband had tried to comfort her.
“Calm thyself,
ma chérie
, we will not go to these hateful places again. We will lead our own life.”
To-night, how different. A Court, one of the oldest in Europe, reflecting that atmosphere of pomp and state associated with long descended Royalty. The kindly young King, his British-born Queen, chatting graciously with their favoured guests. Men in resplendent uniforms and orders, great ladies of the highest Spanish nobility, what a contrast to the homely reception of the President in those far-off days!
Then she had been escorted by a very wealthy but somewhat shady financier, whose influence had not been sufficient to enable her to scale the social heights to which she had aspired.
To-night she was under the wing of a popular chaperon, in whose veins ran the proudest blood of Spain. The Duchess, acting according to instructions, introduced her to everybody she came across.
Mademoiselle Delmonte, handsome, brilliant, and vivacious, was an immediate success. This aristocratic assemblage, ignorant of her antecedents, only recognising that she was under the wing of the popular Duchess, took her at her real valuation.
Being a woman, she was naturally pleased with her momentary success. But she was sensible enough to know to what she owed it. If these people who were flattering her now had known of her lowly origin, how she had graduated through the circus and the music hall to the possession of wealth, they would have turned their backs on her, as the purse-proud parvenus had done in the democratic salons of the French President.
These bitter reflections rather tended to harden than soften her resolution. To-night she was an avenging angel, bent upon the task of making these insolent people atone for the insults heaped upon the lowly-born.
Once in her triumphant progress she came near to Contraras, who was standing alone, surveying the brilliant scene with his keen, deep-set eyes.
She disengaged herself from the arm of her companion, a handsome young man of some standing in Spanish Society.
“Excuse me a moment. I see an old friend, to whom I must say a few words.”
“What do you think of it all?” she whispered, as she held out her hand.
“What I have always thought of such spectacles as these,” he whispered back. “These besotted creatures feast and dance and make merry, without a thought of their oppressed and toiling fellow-creatures.” He spoke intensely, in the most bitter spirit of his gloomy fanaticism.
She could not linger, “My nerves are in perfect order,” she assured him as she turned away. He smiled kindly at her as she passed on.
The amiable and innocent Duchess had performed the duties of chaperon so well, had introduced her to so many people, that it was a long time before Valerie could shake herself free. It was a very crowded assemblage. If she could once break away, she would be free to roam where she pleased.
The moment came at last, close upon midnight. She was alone and mistress of her own movements. Her thoughts were no longer distracted by the idle chatter of some companion forced upon her.
Slowly, she edged her way towards the Royal circle. Progress was a little difficult, but at last she stood within a few feet of the King and Queen. She stood for a few moments, perhaps summoning up her courage. Then her hand stole towards her pocket.
Before she could reach it, a little cordon was formed round her, a cordon of six men in ordinary evening dress. The hand of one of the men gripped hers, and held it in a grasp of iron.
“Come quietly, mademoiselle,” whispered a voice in her ear. “We have followed you round all the evening, we fancied there was something suspicious about you. We may, of course, be mistaken, but in these troublous times we have to be very careful. We will take you to a private room, and have you searched. Of course, if nothing is found upon you, you will go free, and we will make you handsome amends.”
Valerie gave a little choking sob. The gipsy’s prophesy had come true – several years of hard life, a few years of good fortune, and then great tribulation.
“I came here with the Duchess del Pineda,” she said in a broken voice, hardly knowing what she was saying. “Do you dare to suspect – ”
It was the Head of the Police who held her wrist in that iron grasp. He spoke in a suave voice.
“Mademoiselle, we always suspect in our profession. For the Duchess del Pineda I have the highest respect. Will you consent to come quietly? If we are in the wrong, you have nothing to fear.”
She turned with them without a word. She had failed miserably. The upholders of law and order had scored signally over the scattered and imperfect organisation of the brotherhood.
Between them, she walked through the long, brilliantly-lit rooms. The Chief of Police tucked her arm under his, keeping a tight hold on her wrist. The other five men accompanied them. There was nothing in the general attitude to suggest that she was not a very charming woman being escorted by a bevy of admirers.
Contraras was standing by the door as the procession passed out. Agitated as she was, she saw him, and flashed at him an agonised glance.
He flashed back at her a glance equally eloquent. He knew the Chief of Police by sight, and he understood what had happened. Poor little Valerie had failed! They would take her to some room, and search her. In her pocket they would find those cunning little bombs that, once launched, would have sent tyrants and oppressors hurling into space, and proclaimed the dawn of the new era.
Poor little Valerie! His eyes grew misty. As she had failed, it would have been better if he had left her alone. If ever he felt remorse in his life, he felt it that night.
His first impulse was to leave the Palace at once. But wiser thoughts prevailed. The Chief of Police had recognised him, he was sure. If he left immediately, it might give cause for suspicion.
Valerie had failed. For the moment the Cause had suffered a set-back. But his resolution was still undaunted, his brain still active. Because he had failed to-day, it did not follow that he would not be successful to-morrow.
He sought out the Duchess del Pineda, who was, as usual, surrounded by a group of chattering friends.
“Good evening, Duchess. What has become of our young friend, Mademoiselle Delmonte?”
“I really cannot tell you. She broke away from me a long time ago. She has been a tremendous success, I can assure you. I hope she intends to make a long stay in Madrid. She will be most popular.”
“I really cannot tell you. I know nothing of her plans,” answered Contraras in his grave, quiet tones. “As I told the Duke, I met her in France and England, where she appeared to move in the best circles.”
“Naturally,” said the innocent Duchess. Nobody would suspect the highly respected Contraras of telling a deliberate lie.
Outside the Palace, the crowd had thinned, but Moreno and Violet Hargrave still waited. Midnight had struck and all was quiet. There were no signs that heralded the happening of a tragedy. A few belated arrivals passed through to the Palace. The crowd began to melt away.
And then there was a little stir. A carriage drove up outside the Palace doors. Two men and a woman stepped into it, the woman was in evening dress.
The carriage passed the two watchers. Mrs Hargrave peered into the slowly-moving vehicle.
“Valerie Delmonte,” she whispered excitedly. “There is a man sitting beside her, one of those two men I noticed driving in – don’t you remember I said they looked people of importance, and you said you did not know them from Adam. What does it mean? Valerie alone with those men?”
“It looks as if the
coup
had failed,” replied Moreno quietly. “I should say that Valerie has been caught, and those two men are members of the police.”
Mrs Hargrave grew a little hysterical. “Thank God, it was not myself,” she added, after a pause. “I am glad it was not you.”
Moreno was about to reply when another carriage drove through, the occupant of which was Contraras. His tall form seemed huddled up; he was evidently in a state of extreme dejection.
Moreno tucked Mrs Hargrave’s arm under his own.
“Come along! Evidently the
coup
has failed; the police have been one too many for us. Valerie Delmonte going away with those two men, poor old Contraras huddled up in that carriage, his attitude expressing that all is lost, at any rate, for the moment! We have nothing to wait for. We shall hear all about it to-morrow.”
They walked along arm in arm, both occupied with their own thoughts. Mrs Hargrave broke the long silence.
“He is a wonderful man. If he is dejected to-night, he will be full of energy and vigour to-morrow.” Moreno agreed. “Yes, he will think of more
coups
. I suppose the next one will be the removal of Mr Rossett.”
Violet made no answer immediately. Then, presently she said. “I fancy he is considered a rather dangerous person from our point of view.” Moreno shrugged his shoulders. “And yet I fancy his removal would not greatly hasten the new era, do you? He is really a quite insignificant person. If Valerie had brought it off to-night, well and good – but I must confess these minor developments don’t interest me greatly. Do they interest you?”
“A little, I think,” answered Mrs Hargrave, in a somewhat faint voice.
Moreno looked at her steadfastly. Her nerves were a bit out of order to-night. That long vigil outside the Palace had told on them – that waiting for the crash of the bombs which Valerie Delmonte had carried in her pocket, the bombs which now had been appropriated by the Chief of Police.
He gave her arm a tende