He was at his favorite post of observation, like a watch-dog, at one of the doors of the salón de conferencias; he had been for some time on the scent for news, when he happened to see a page carry a telegram to the President of the Council of Ministers. The President opened it, read it carefully, and crumpled it in his hands with a frown, and then walked along with slow step to the lobby. Merelo was all alive, and followed him with ears alert, with eager eyes, and quivering nostrils. The President went to the wash-room. Merelo waited patiently. The President came out. Then Merelo's brain underwent a sudden and terrible revolution; he hesitated a moment whether or not to follow him back; but at that instant he was inspired by one of those thoughts that illuminate the records of journalism; instead of following his quarry, he darted like a flash into the wash-room, looked, and hunted, and hunted.... At last, in an obscure spot, he found a bit of crumpled blue paper. He had no hesitation in pulling it out.
That evening La Independencia printed the following:—
"It seems that the preconization of the bishop-elect of Malaga, Señor N——, first cousin of the President of the Council of Ministers, meets with opposition in Rome."
The President read this notice as he was going to bed, and he was greatly surprised, as he afterwards confessed to his friends, because the report of the Pope's opposition to his cousin's confirmation had been telegraphed to him by the ambassador. Racking his memory, he recalled the fact that that afternoon, after reading the telegram, he had been followed along the lobby of Congress by a shadow, and that the shadow was waiting when he had come out of the wash-room. The President instantly guessed how the cat was let out of the bag, and burst into a roar of laughter. "That was a good joke," he exclaimed, as he put out the light.
V.
Utrilla had gone to bed, feverish and nervous. And it was with very good reason. For the second time he had failed to pass his examination; he was as good as expelled from the Military Academy.[14]
His prescient heart had told him before the examination: "Jacobo, they will certainly ask you about the pendulum, and that is the very thing in which you are weakest!"
And indeed he had scarcely taken his seat before the tribunal, when, zas! the professor of physics said to him in a wheedling accent:—
"Señor Utrilla, have the goodness to explain for us the theory of the pendulum."
The cadet, rather pale, arose and looked with wild eyes at the professor's desk.... The algebra professor smiled ironically, as though he divined his confusion. Why had that old man taken such a dislike to him? Utrilla could not explain it otherwise than by envy; the professor had seen him at the theatre with Julita under his protection. He arose, and with uncertain steps went to the slaughter; that is, to the blackboard. With trembling hand he made a few ciphers, and at the end of fifteen minutes drew a deep sigh of relief, and returned to his seat. The professor of physics shook his head several times:—