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Cousin Peligros lived in a little apartment in Madrid, which she fondly imagined to be the hub of the social universe. "They all come," she said, "to consult the Senorita de Sarrion upon points of etiquette." And she patted the air condescendingly with her left hand. There are some people who seem to be created by a far-seeing Providence as a solemn warning.
Sarrion, smoking a cigarette by the stove, glanced at his son and knew that Juanita's fate was fixed. For good or ill, for happiness or misery, she was destined to marry Marcos de Sarrion if the whole church of Rome should rise up and curse his soul and hers for the deed. Sarrion appeared to have no suggestions to make. He continued to smoke reflectively while he warmed himself at the stove.
She had been informed that Sarrion had found it necessary to take Juanita de Mogente away from the convent school and to assume the cares of that guardianship which had always been an understood obligation mutually binding between himself and Francisco de Mogente.
And the Vatican will, of course, consent. I fancy that is how it stands." He tapped his pocket as if the golden "piecès de conviction" were already there, and closed his eye like any common person; like, for instance, his own father, who was an Andalusian innkeeper. "I fancy that is how it is," said Sarrion, turning gravely to Marcos. "Is it not so?" "That is how it is," replied Marcos.
She went to the window and passed out on to the balcony. Sarrion had, in obedience to her wishes, gone to his room. He was now sitting on a long chair on the balcony, apparently watching the dawn. "Of what are you thinking as you sit there watching the new light in the mountains?" she asked gaily. He looked at her with a softness in the eyes which usually expressed a tolerant cynicism.
"No man in the valley would have done it," suggested Sarrion. "If any man in the valley had done it he would have put his knife into me when I lay on the road, which would have been murder." He gave a short laugh and was silent. "And the hand inside the velvet glove does not risk murder," reflected Sarrion, "They have not given up the game yet. We must be careful of ourselves." "And of Juanita."
Sarrion followed him, and they stood side by side looking out over the valley. At that moment that which was more of a vibration than a sound came to their ears across the mountains deep and foreboding. "I thought I was right," said Mon, in little more than a whisper. "The Carlists are abroad, my friend, and I, who am a man of peace must get within the city walls."
"That horse didn't fall," said Marcos to his father. "He was thrown. There was a wire across the road." "There was none when I got there," replied Sarrion. "Then it had been removed. I saw it as we fell. My foot caught in it or I could have thrown myself clear in the usual way." Sarrion reflected a moment. "Let me look at the note that Zeneta wrote you," he said.
Perro was still pattering to and fro on the terrace, giving from time to time his little plaint of uneasiness between his closed teeth. At length Sarrion rose and struck a light. It was one o'clock. He dressed quickly and noiselessly and went down-stairs, candle in hand. The stable at Torre Garda stands at the side of the house, a few feet behind it against the hillside.
By one or two moves in this subtle warfare, Sarrion had forced his adversary to unmask his defenses. Some of the obstructions behind which Juanita was now concealed could scarcely have originated in chance.
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