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It was probably no small task to command such men as Evasio Mon and the other four seemed no less pliable behind their gentle smile. When the dessert had been placed on the table and one or two had reflectively eaten a baked almond, more from habit than desire, the little wizened man looked round the table with the manner of a rather absent-minded host. "It is eight o'clock," he said in French.
Marcos nodded his head, as if he knew what was coming. "And remember that the danger is imminent that Evasio Mon is not the man to let the grass grow beneath his feet that we cannot let Juanita wait... three weeks." "I know," answered Marcos.
Evasio Mon had friends also among the humble and such as sheltered in the Posada de los Reyes, which itself was a typical Spanish hostelry, and one of those houses of the road in which the traveler is lucky if he finds the bedrooms all occupied; for then he may, without giving offense, sleep more comfortably in the hayloft.
It was Evasio Mon who, standing at the open window of his apartment in the tall house next door to the Posada de los Reyes on the Paseo del Ebro, had observed with the help of a field-glass, that a traveler was crossing the river by the ferry-boat after midnight. He noted the unusual proceeding with a tolerant shrug.
Evasio Mon, cloaked to the eyes against the autumn night, hurried down the Calle San Gregorio and turned into an open doorway that led into the patio of a great four-sided house. He climbed the stone stair and knocked at a door, which was instantly opened. "Come!" said the man who opened it a white-haired priest of benevolent face. "He is conscious. He asks for a notary. He is dying!
These were citizens of the world, and their likeness lay deeper than a mere accident of dress. In fact, the most remarkable thing about them was that they were all alike studiously unremarkable. After the formal bow, Evasio Mon gave his attention to the fare set before him.
Evasio Mon arrived at Montserrat in the evening, having driven in open carriage from the small town of Monistrol in the valley below. It was the hour of the table d'hôte, and the still evening air was ambient with culinary odours.
Their ways had parted soon after the nursery, and, though they had met frequently, they had never trodden the same path again. For Evasio Mon had been educated as a priest. "I have often wondered why I have never clashed with Evasio Mon," Sarrion once said to his son in the reflective quiet of their life at Torre Garda.
He was a feeble man the only weak man, it would appear, in the room. "Then stay and pray if you want to," answered Mogente, without even troubling himself to show contempt. The notary was at his table again, and seemed to seek his cue by an upward glance. "You will, perhaps, leave your fortune," he suggested at length, "to to some good work." But Evasio Mon was shaking his head.
Sarrion laughed, and with an easy tact changed the subject which could scarcely be a pleasant one between a professed nun and two men known all over Spain as leaders in that party which was erroneously called Anti-Clerical, because it held that the Church should not have the dominant voice in politics. "Have you seen our friend, Evasio Mon, lately?" he asked. "Yes he is on the road behind me."
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