With the flashing Douro between himself and the city, he took out the cura's unsealed letter to the wine-merchant and read it for the twentieth time. The perusal strengthened his conviction that he could not present it. Throughout three pages the cura enlarged upon his young friend's troubles as an expelled monk: and this was not the light in which Antonio wished the employers of Oporto to regard him.
Descending into Villa Nova de Gaia, he was surprised and delighted to find that he was already among the warehouses and caves of the more famous wine-merchants, and that he did not need to cross the bridge of boats in order to begin his search for employment. But as it was still too early for the magnates to have reached their bureaux, he determined to hear Mass. On a height above him rose a fine domed church, and thither he climbed. Antonio did not know that he was gazing upon the famous Augustinian convent of Nossa Senhora da Serra do Pilar, whence the Duke of Wellington, helped by monks, had made his wonderful dash across the Douro five-and-thirty years before; nor did he know that less than two years had passed since the gallant Liberal Marquis Sa da Bandeira had held the same spot against heavy Miguelista odds. What engrossed Antonio was the confusion, which showed that this convent was faring little better than his own abbey and that the Augustinians were faring no better than the Benedictines. He waited for Mass in vain.
Dropping down again into Gaia he bought a piece of bread and turned into a tavern for a short rest and a draught of wine. When the tavern-keeper was inquisitive Antonio candidly stated that he had come to Gaia to look for employment. The tavern-keeper shook his head.
"Your Worship has come at the wrong time," he said. And he went on to tell how one of the French soldiers of fortune, who had been hired for the siege, had wantonly destroyed nine thousand pipes of wine in a single warehouse. The port-wine trade, he said, was all at sixes and sevens.
A little daunted, Antonio arose at last and made his way to the first of the warehouses. Like many others which he visited in the course of the day, it was protected by a small representation of the Union Jack, painted correctly in red, white, and blue, and superscribed, "British Property." An English foreman barred Antonio's way to the office with a surly announcement that the manager had not arrived, and that in no case were new hands required. At the second warehouse he was less curtly but no more usefully answered. At the third and fourth he was denied admittance. At the fifth he would have been given a temporary post had he been able to speak English: but the monk could only read and write it. At the eleventh and last he was told that he might apply again in a week's time.
With weary limbs and a wearier heart the wanderer crossed the bridge of boats in the blaze of the June afternoon and toiled up the hill to the cathedral. In the granite cloisters, face to face with some unchurchly azulejos depicting scenes from the Song of Solomon, he sat with closed eyes until the heat was passed. Then he descended one hill and ascended another in search of the great Benedictine monastery. He found the community still in possession: but an inward voice forbade him to make himself known and he turned sadly away.
Many broken windows and a few wrecked houses reminded Antonio of the siege so lately ended; but, on the whole, he was surprised to see so few signs of the strife. The streets were full of bullock-carts, fishwives, and busy people of all sorts, and the river was alive with shipping. Amidst so much activity surely the morrow would find a post for him to fill. He plucked up heart and set about securing a cheap lodging. Happily the first he inspected met his needs. For six tostões a week he hired a narrow room over a cobbler's, with the right to use the cobbler's wife's fire twice a day.
In order that he might pick up the manners and speech of the world, Antonio dined that night in a quay-side eating-house. Throughout the meal he heard little more than a loud conversation between a Norwegian captain and his mate: but while he was lingering at the table, lamenting the wasting of twelve vintens, three or four Portuguese entered and sat down at the table of the departing Norwegians. In audible tones they continued a debate in which they were engaged on the suppression of the religious orders. They were coarsened men, whose language was one-fourth oaths.
As one monstrous slander after another was uttered against his brethren, Antonio's blood began to boil within him. Very little more would have overborne his self-control: but suddenly a black-mustached man with the Lisbon accent, who had taken a minor part in the argument, rapped the table and made himself heard.
"Monks and friars are wastrels and loafers," he began, "but the men who're turning them out are ten times worse. Listen to me. I'll tell your Worships what everybody was talking about in Lisbon the day before yesterday, when I came away."