The Car of Destiny
seen when a Spanish king marries—but I hate the thought of Pilar being
there.”
“Her father’ll be with her,” I tried to console him.
“No, he won’t. His seat’s in a box. Hers has been given in _Tendido_
Number 9, a space set apart for the _senoritas de la aristocracia_ to sit
together, in smart dresses and mantillas, as if they were part of the
show.”
“Perhaps Monica will be there,” I said quickly.
“Not she. The Duke and Duchess of Carmona and the Duke’s fiancée and her
mother will be in a box next the royal bride and bridegroom; Pilar heard
that, and wrote me. You see, they’re in high favour at Court now, and
Carmona’s ambition will be satisfied at last. The new Duchess is to be a
lady-in-waiting, and take up her duties when the King and Queen come back
from their honeymoon.”
“She never will take them up as Duchess of Carmona,” said I.
“Car ready,” announced Ropes, who had made record time in changing an
inner tube, and was panting with his exertions.
But where was San Cristóbal to-day—on this day of all others, when his
services were needed? We had not gone half a mile when there came a whizz,
and a grinding noise which meant a broken chain. Ropes grew pale and bit
his lip. In his overpowering anxiety for me he was losing nerve.
“Never mind mending it here,” I said. “Tighten up the axle, and go on with
one sprocket only. We can get into the town that way, and find a
machine-shop.”
We did find one; but we were kept a full hour in Aranjuez; nor could we
make good going afterwards as we approached the capital. The road was
covered with vehicles, and packed as we neared Madrid; for every soul not
bidden to the great bull-fight wished to see the favoured ones who were,
and to applaud the King and Queen who by their splendid courage two days
before had won double popularity.
It was almost beyond endurance to be caught in the pack, and to know that
there was no way out, except to move with the throng; nevertheless, it had
to be endured. And time went on.
We had hoped to run into some hole or corner as near as might be to the
royal entrance of the Plaza de Toros, before the crowd began to pour in;
but an hour struck as we crept into the great sunlit plaza—four o’clock;
the time appointed for the pageant to begin.
XLI
THE FIFTH BULL; AND AFTER
Hundreds—thousands, it seemed—of automobiles and carriages were before us;
and as the Gloria was stopped by the stopping of others in front, a shout
rang up to the sky, from behind the high brown walls of the bull-ring. It
was the welcome which the public gave their King and his bride as they
appeared in the royal box.
We were too late to intercept Carmona; for as the royalties had taken
their places, he was certain to be already in his, with his fiancée by his
side.
Covered with dust, burnt by the sun which had shone hotly since
Manzanares, all but spent with fatigue, I leaned back in my seat. For a
moment I did not hear what Dick was saying, although I was conscious that
he spoke; but suddenly the meaning of his words broke in on my tired
brain.
“It’ll be two hours before the King and Queen leave their box and lesser
folks can move,” he said. “I’m not going to have you sitting here in the
heat and dust.”
“I must wait till they come out,” I answered dully. “It’s the only way.”
“No, it isn’t. I told you Pilar’d sent me a ticket. The card says
‘_sombra_,’ so the seat’s in the shade all right, and you’re going to have
it.”
“But you?” I said. “Pilar would never forgive me—”
“She’d never forgive me if I didn’t hand it over to you. But I’ll get in
somehow. It can cost me fifty dollars if it likes to slip past a
policeman, but I guess the price won’t stop me. I don’t mind if I stand up
in the _callijon_. I’m tall enough to see all I want, and more; and if a
bull jumps over the _barrera_, as one did at Seville the other day, my
legs are long enough to save me.”
Ropes was to stay with the car and wait until we came again. Before that
time my fate would be decided. Nothing could keep me from meeting Monica
now; and nothing should keep her from me, if she loved me. If not—if after
all I had been dreaming, why, she would be the Duchess of Carmona
to-morrow.
Under horses’ noses, between backs and bonnets of motors, we edged our way
through the dense crowd of vehicles and people massed together on the
baking plain outside the bull-ring. The circle which had been cleared for
royalty had filled again now, like a sandbank which has caved in upon
itself; but the spectacle on the other side of those steep brown walls had
begun, and the main entrance was comparatively clear.
Armed with the ticket engraved with the magic words “Corrida Real” over a
black and white sketch of a mounted picador, I was allowed to enter. But
when I had passed along a corridor and through a door which opened into a
crowded _tendido_, I heard Dick’s voice at my ear. “Only twenty-five
dollars after all,” said he, “and I can sit on the steps. Grand! We’re
next to _Tendido_ Number 9. I see Pilar; look—close to the end, front
row.”
After the silent rooms of the old Moorish house and the little _patio_
with its tinkling fountain, the brilliant light and colour, the confused
sounds and movement, the vast size of the bull-ring struck me fiercely
between the eyes, bewildering sight and sense.
Seats were valuable in the _tendidos_ for this great day, when almost
every place meant a royal favour; but we were late, and instead of moving
on to search for my twelve inches of plank or stone, I was thankful to
squeeze in close to the entrance. I did not see Colonel O’Donnel, and
though I was close to the famous _Tendido_ Number 9 (which must have held
every eye till the royalties came), I forgot to look for Pilar in that
white-and-rose garden of Spanish loveliness.
The first act of the great royal bull-fight had begun. Twenty glittering,
spangled _espadas_ marched with elastic steps into the ring, followed by
the yellow-trousered picadors on their sorry horses. The three gala
coaches carrying the distinguished amateur picadors and their ducal
patrons who graced this marriage feast, still circled picturesquely in the
arena, making a pageant of the Middle Ages. The sun blazed on nodding
ostrich plumes, gold embroidered hammercloths, dazzling liveries, powdered
heads, and splendid horses in quaint harness, rich with gold and jewels.
The three Dukes, owners of the coaches, had introduced the cavaliers they
patronized to the King-President; the bride-Queen in her white mantilla
and flowers of Spanish colours stood bowing in the glass frame of the
royal box. Gaily decorated _palcos_, _tendidos_, _grados_, tier upon tier,
half in sun, half in shadow, rose above the huge ring like so many
terraced flower-beds, dazzling with the gold lace of uniforms and the
bright tints of women’s dresses softened by white mantillas. Over all was
a fluttering of fans, like thousands of hovering butterflies; and a hum
floated up loud as the humming of a million bees, to the blue dome of sky,
where English and Spanish flags waved together.
Mechanically my eyes took in the splendid scene, as they searched for
Monica; and finding her, for a time saw nothing else.
She was in a box near the royalties, and sat between her mother and the
Duchess, with Carmona and some man whom I did not know, behind them. She
was in a white dress and white mantilla, with pink and white _malmaisons_
in her hair; and her face was pathetically pale in its frame of falling
lace. In her hand was a fan with which to shut out such horrors of the
fight as none but Spanish women born and bred dare trust themselves to
see. My place was distant and far below; yet my eyes were keen, and it
seemed to me that she looked thin and frail, though very beautiful. If for
an instant, since Dick broke the news to me, I had doubted the loyalty of
her heart, the sight of her sad young face would have driven doubt away. I
was more than ever certain that in promising to marry Carmona she thought
to save me from punishment threatened by him.
Neither he nor she guessed that I was near. But where did she believe me
to be? Perhaps Carmona had said that for her sake he had let me fly danger
after stabbing him in the cathedral, by hurrying back to England.
The Duke was leaning forward to speak to her. She did not look up at him,
but let her eyes listlessly travel over the vast audience. I thought they
lingered on _Tendido_ Number 9, draped with flowered shawls of Andalucía,
and crowded with pretty women. Suddenly she blushed, and turned away. I
looked where she had looked, and knew what had brought the blood to her
cheeks. Pilar, in rose colour, with a white mantilla and the orthodox
_malmaisons_, of pink and crimson, was gazing up at the Carmona box, an
imploring expression on her face. Pilar, too, was pale and thin. I
realized more and more that nearly six weeks had been struck out of my
life.
Each of the three coaches had in its turn stopped under the royal box,
while a ducal patron presented his cavalier to the young King and his
bride; now, the ring was being cleared as the magnificent amateur picadors
mounted their horses, which had been led round by squires in the quaint
dress of 1630. One of four dignified _alguaziles_ in black velvet and lace
doffed his plumed hat to the King as President of the fight, asking the
key of the bull’s cell. Down it flashed, while the music stopped as if
awed into silence, and the _alguazil_ spurred his stallion across the
arena to fling into the _montera_ of _el Buñolero_, janitor of the bull
cells, the key he had received.
“Vivillo is fifth bull,” I said to myself, repeating Dick’s words; and
there, too, was his name on the programme of the fight. Pilar’s favourite
had still a little time to draw the breath of life, stamping in the gloom
of his narrow _toril_. Not yet had that untamed neck of his been stung by
the rosetted dart flaunting his owner’s colours; and much was to happen in
the arena before Vivillo’s brave beauty would call for the clapping of
twice thirteen thousand hands.
First, the three noble amateurs, with their long sharp javelins, must each
in turn play picador with grace to please a queen-bride, and save his
horse’s sides from goring horns. Then, when three bulls had died according
to ancient, chivalrous custom (if the cavalier’s skill served), without
slaughter of horses, the _corrida_ would go on in ordinary Spanish fashion
of to-day, with all its sensational moments and its tragedies,
until—Vivillo’s time came.
As for me, I must sit until the leave-taking of the royalties and royal
guests should empty also the Carmona box. I wondered, as the first bull
rushed into the ring, whether the King and Queen would still be in their
places when the door should open for Vivillo, or whether their departure
would rob Carmona of the spectacle of his mean revenge. I hoped it would,
for I could not bear that he should see the suffering he had inflicted on
Pilar for my sake, and revel in it. Still, when he went I must go too; and
I felt vaguely that I ought to be near Pilar—my loyal sister Pilar—during
the act which would be tragical for her.
As Dick said, there were brilliant moments in the bull-fight; and the
amateurs acquitted themselves in a way to deserve the enthusiasm of the
crowd. The beautiful young Queen threw a jewel to each _torero_ who
finished a bull after the javelins of the cavaliers had done their work;
and when the last of the brave trio had bowed himself out of the ring,
began that phase of the sport which Spaniards know and love. The
blindfolded horses trotted in, ridden by professional picadors with
indifferent, sullen faces; and then a stir of excitement ran from tier to