Chapter Thirty.
The Poor Ladies.
Quite a combination of circumstances had favoured the escape of the four forzados—the balking of the horses, the absence of Dominguez, and the relaxed vigilance of the guards—from their brains bemuddled with drink. But there was yet another lucky chance that stood them in stead—the point from which they had started. The line of sentries ended at the Alamedas Gate, and, as the one posted there was he who had them in particular charge, once past him they had only to fear a single bullet sent after them.
As it turned out, they did not even get that, fortune favouring them in every way. This sentry, though last on the line outward, was the first encountered by the people returning from the ceremony at San Corme; therefore made most of by passing friends, with the bottle oftener presented to his lips. As a consequence, when the carriage whirled past him he had but an indistinct idea of why it was going so fast, and none at all as to who were in it. With eyes drowned in aguardiente he stood as one dazed, looking after, but taking no measures to stop it. When at length some one bawled the truth into his ear and he brought his flint-lock to an unsteady level, it would have been too late—had the piece gone off. Luckily for those on the sidewalk, it did not; missing fire by a flash in the pan, as might have been anticipated.
Never were sentries more completely taken by surprise than they guarding the chain-gang. Nor more disagreeably. They knew they had been neglecting their duty, and might expect severe punishment! possibly set at the very task they were now superintending! Still, they made no attempt to pursue. They were not cavalry; and only mounted men could overtake that landau with its curious load, soon to vanish from their sight. So they stood gazing after it in helpless bewilderment, their faces showing a variety of expressions, surprise, anger, fear, mingled in a most ludicrous manner. Deserting their posts they had gathered into a knot, and it was some time before they had so far recovered their senses as to think of despatching one of their number to the Plaza Grande after cavalry sure to be there.
It was a fine opportunity for others of the gaol-birds to make a bolt; but for the obstructive coupling-chains no doubt some would avail themselves of it. These, however, hindered the attempt. There were no more restive horses, nor blundering coachmen to bring another carriage near enough for a rush.
But the most interesting group now on the ground was that which had collected round the ladies left carriage-less; some offering services, others speaking words of sympathy. “Las señoritas pobres!”
“Pobrecitas!”—(“The poor young ladies!” “Poor things!”) were exclamations uttered over and over again.
It was a trying situation for the “poor things” to be in, sure enough. But they acquitted themselves admirably; especially the Condesa, who, young though she was, for courage and coolness had few to equal her. In that emergency no man could have shown himself her superior. Her look of still untranquillised terror, the intermittent flashes of anger in her eyes as she loudly denounced the ruffians who had carried off their carriage, was a piece of acting worthy of a Rachel or Siddons. He would have been a keen physiognomist who could have told that her emotions were counterfeit. Little dreamt the sympathising spectators that while being pushed out of the carriage she had contrived to whisper back to the man so rudely behaving: “Look under the cushions, querido! You’ll find something. Dios te guarda!”
Still less could they have supposed that the other young lady, looking so meek, had at the same time spoken tender words to the second ruffian who had assailed them.
The part the pobrecitas were playing, with the sympathy they received, seemed to themselves so comically ludicrous that, but for its serious side, neither could have kept countenance. Alone the thought of the lovers not yet being beyond danger hindered their bursting out into laughter.
And lest this, too, might cease to restrain them they seized upon the earliest pretext to get away from the spot.
Glad were they when some of their gentlemen acquaintances, who chanced to be passing the place, came up and proposed escorting them home. A service accepted and, it need not be said, offered with as much alacrity as it was received.
Their departure had no effect in dispersing the crowd which had gathered by the Alamedas Gate. A spot signalised by an episode so odd and original, was not to be forsaken in that quick inconsiderate way. Instead, the throng grew quicker, until the street for a long stretch was packed full of people, close as they could stand. Only one part of it remained unoccupied, the central list showing the open sewer with its bordering of black mud. In their holiday attire the populace declined invading this, though they stood wedging one another along its edge; their faces turned towards it, with hilarity in their looks and laughter on their lips. It was just the sort of spectacle to please them; the sentries in a row—for they had now sneaked back to their post—appearing terribly crestfallen, while those over whom they stood guard seemed, on the contrary, cheerful—as though expecting soon to be released from their chains. With them it was the esprit de corps of the galley slave, glad to see a comrade escape from their common misery, though he cannot escape himself.
All this, however, was tame; but the winding up of the spectacle in a quiet natural way. It would soon have been over now, and the sightseers scattered off to their homes; but just as they were beginning to retire, a new incident claimed their attention. A scene almost as exciting as any that had preceded, though only a single personage appeared in it. This Dominguez, the gaoler, who had been absent all the while at his pulqueria, and only just warned of the event that had so convulsed the Callé de Plateros, breaking through the crowd like an enraged bull, rushed along the sewer’s edge, nourishing his whip over the heads of the forzados, at the same time reviling the sentries for their scandalous neglect of duty! To tell the truth, he was more troubled about his own. He had received particular instructions to be watchful of four prisoners—the very ones that had escaped. Well might he dread the reckoning in store for him on return to the gaol. However could he face his governor?
For some time he strode to and fro, venting his drunken spleen alike on soldiers or scavengers. Some of the former would have retaliated; but they knew him to have authority in high places, and therefore kept silent, sullenly enduring it. Not so the spectators, many of whom, knowing, hated him. Possibly, more than probably, some of them had been under his care. But to all he was now affording infinite amusement. They laughed at his impotent anger, and laughed again, one crying out, “He’s as good as a bull in a ring!” another exclaiming, “Viva el Señor Dominguez rey de las bastoneros!” (“Hurrah for the Señor Dominguez, king of the turnkeys!”)—a sally which elicited roars of applauding laughter.
If angry before, he was now infuriated. Purple in the face, he was making a dash at the man whom he suspected of mocking him, when his foot slipped and down he went into the drain head foremost.
He had altogether disappeared, and was for some seconds out of sight; the laughter, which had become a yelling chorus, all the while continuing. Nor did it cease when he re-appeared; instead, was louder and more uproarious than ever. For his face, late blue with rage, was now black with a limning of the sewer liquid.
But he was less mad than sad, after the ill-timed tumble. The douche had tamed, if not sobered him; and his only thought now was how to get away from that place of repeated discomfitures, anywhere to hide and wash himself.
Luck declared for him at last, in the approach of a squadron of Hussars, drawing off from him the eyes of the spectators; who had now enough to do looking out for themselves and their safety. For the Hussars were coming on at a gallop, with drawn sabres.
A crush and a scampering followed, as they forced their way through the crowd, shouting, and striking with the back of their blades. After they had passed, the people were no longer in a humour for laughing at the “King of the turnkeys,” nor any one else; neither was he there to be laughed at.