‘None can guard himself against assassination.’
The General seemed for a moment inclined to dispute this statement, but shrugged his shoulders and finally passed it by.
In response, Concha took a newspaper from his pocket and spread it out on the table. After a brief search up and down the ill-printed columns, he found the desired paragraph, and read aloud:
‘The Queen is in Madrid. The Queen Regent journeys from Seville to rejoin her daughter in the capital, prosecuting her journey by easy stages and accompanied by a small guard. Her Majesty sleeps at Ciudad Real to-night, and at Toledo to-morrow night.’
‘This,’ said Concha, folding the newspaper, ‘is a Carlist and revolutionary rag whose readers are scarcely likely to be interested for a good motive in the movements of the Queen Regent.’
‘True, my dear Padre—true,’ admitted Vincente, half reluctantly.
‘Many kiss hands they would fain see chopped off. In the streets and on the Plaza I have seen many reading this newspaper and talking over it with unusual interest. Like a bad lawyer, I am giving the confirmation of the argument before the argument itself.’
‘Ah! but we have no time to do things ill or carelessly,’ said the priest. ‘My story is a long one, but I will tell it as quickly as I can.’
‘Take your time,’ urged the General soothingly. ‘This great plot, you say, which is to spread over all Spain—’
‘Rien n’est plus courageux qu’un cœur patient, rien n’est plus sûr de soi qu’un ésprit doux.’
THE General set down his glass, and a queer light came into his eyes, usually so smiling and pleasant.
‘Ah! Then you are right, my friend. Tell us your story as quickly as possible.’
‘It appears,’ said Concha, ‘that there has been in progress for many months a plot to assassinate the Queen Regent and to seize the person of the little Queen, expelling her from Spain, and bringing in, not Don Carlos, who is a spent firework, but a Republic—a more dangerous firework, that usually bursts in the hands of those that light it. This plot has been finally put into shape by a letter—’
He paused, tapped on the table with his bony fingers, and glanced at Estella.
‘A letter which has been going the round of all the malcontents in the Peninsula. Each faction-leader, to show that he has read it and agrees to obey its commands, initials the letter. It has then been returned to an intermediary, who sends it to the next—never by post, because the post is watched—always by hand, and usually by the hand of a person innocent of its contents.’