CHAPTER XVIII
AT THE OPERA HOUSE
Now that I was on foot I saw with much concern what a condition of tumult and confusion prevailed in the capital. The streets were thronged with people talking, gesticulating, shouting; some standing in groups, others loitering casually, and others again rushing hither and thither distractedly. The whole city everywhere appeared to have gone almost wild with excitement. Every street corner had its own clamorous group—men, women, and children mingled together, all manifesting the same symptoms of turbulent unrest.
The police were everywhere. Bodies of troops, mounted and on foot, patrolled the main thoroughfares and by-streets alike; and ever and again I met small parties of police or troops, or both mixed, hurrying along with one or two men or women in their midst. The sight of these seemed to goad the populace almost to frenzy; and they broke into hoots, groans, and indescribable cries, mingled with hisses, oaths, and loud vehement execrations.
I had no need to ask the cause of this, for the key was on everyone's tongue, and the cry was everywhere "Death to the Carlists!" Wherever I turned, the air rang with it: in the quavering tone of old age, in the shrill screech of violent women, in the strident cry of strong, angry men, even in the puny squeal of children held up by their mothers to clench their tiny fists and squeak a curse after the Carlist captives as they were hustled by to gaol.
The tale ran with its usual exaggerations. "The young King had been killed, and the Queen Mother—the Holy Virgin preserve her—lay dying from the wounds received in trying to save her son." "No; the King was not dead, only desperately wounded, lying at death's door, shot from a distance by the cowards who had no stomach for an open attack." "No, no; the King had been stolen and the Queen murdered, and the villains had even dared to enter the Palace itself, and, thanks be to the Holy Saints, had been caught by the guard and clapped into gaol, after having been nearly pulled to pieces by the mob. Blessed be the Virgin, the dear young King was safe." "All wrong, the King was safe, and had been saved by the great Minister himself, Quesada;" and so on, through the whole gamut of conjecturing ignorance.
All this I caught as I hurried at such speed as I could make to Madame Chansette's house in search of Sarita. It was nothing to me on what lies the people fed themselves or were fed by Quesada's agents. I knew that his object was to raise such a popular clamour against the Carlists as would strengthen his hands in the work of stamping them out, and the Spanish temper was already running so high that more than one ugly rush by the mob had been made at some of the batches of prisoners, as if to tear them to pieces. And I trembled as I thought of Sarita in the hands of these furious violence-mongers.
There was some risk for me, too, in going to Madame Chansette's. I had heard the order given to Rubio to arrest Sarita at once, and if he and his men were before me, I knew I might be arrested. The consideration did not stop my going to the house, but it made me keep a very sharp eye for the police agents.
The house wore its customary appearance, however, and when I knocked I was admitted by the servant, whom I knew by sight. All seemed well so far. I asked for both Madame Chansette and Sarita, and was shown at once to the former. I found her weeping bitterly, prostrated, and really ill with alarm.
"I am so thankful to see you. You have heard this awful news. Oh, what shall we do, what shall we do?"