Below there was a beating at the front door. Molara turned towards Lucile, who still cowered in the corner of the room, and began to revile her. The common, ugly material of his character showed through the veneer and polish that varied intercourse and the conduct of great affairs had superimposed. His words were not fit to hear, nor worth remembering; but they stung her to the quick and she rejoined defiantly: “You knew I was here; you told me to come! You have laid a trap; the fault is yours!” Molara replied by a filthy taunt. “I am innocent,” she cried; “though I love him, I am innocent! Why did you tell me to come here?”
Savrola began to perceive dimly. “I do not know,” he said, “what villainy you have contrived. I have wronged you too much to care to have your blood on my head; but go, and go quickly; I will not endure your foulness. Go!”
The President was now recovering his calmness. “I should have shot you myself,” he said, “but I will have it done by a platoon of soldiers—five soldiers and a corporal.”
“The murder will be avenged in either case.”
“Why did you stop me, Miguel?”
“It is as he says, Your Excellency,” replied the Secretary. “It would have been a tactical error.”
The official manner, the style of address, the man’s composure, restored the President to his senses. He walked towards the door and stopping at the sideboard helped himself to a glass of brandy with ostentation. “Confiscated,” he said, and held it up to the light, “by order of the Government.” He swallowed it. “I will see you shot tomorrow,” he added, heedless that the other held the pistol.
“I shall be at the Mayoralty,” said Savrola; “you may come and fetch me if you dare.”
“Revolt!” said the President. “Pooh! I will stamp it out, and you too, before the sun has gone down.”
“Perhaps there may be another ending to the tale.”
“One or the other,” said the President. “You have robbed me of my honour; you are plotting to rob me of my power. There is not room for both of us in the world. You may take your mistress with you to hell.”
There was a noise of hasty footsteps on the stairs; Lieutenant Tiro flung open the door, but stopped abruptly in astonishment at the occupants of the room. “I heard a shot,” he said.
“Yes,” answered the President; “there has been an accident, but luckily no harm was done. Will you please accompany me to the palace? Miguel, come!”
“You had better be quick, Sir,” said the Subaltern. “There are many strange folk about tonight, and they are building a barricade at the end of the street.”
“Indeed?” said the President. “It is time we took steps to stop them. Good night, Sir,” he added, turning to Savrola; “we shall meet tomorrow and finish our discussion.”
But Savrola, revolver in hand, looked at him steadily and let him go in silence, a silence that for a space Lucile’s sobs alone disturbed. At length, when the retreating footsteps had died away and the street door had closed, she spoke. “I cannot stop here.”
“You cannot go back to the palace.”
“What am I to do, then?”
Savrola reflected. “You had better stay here for the present. The house is at your disposal, and you will be alone. I must go at once to the Mayoralty; already I am late—it is close on twelve—the moment approaches. Besides, Molara will send policemen, and I have duties to discharge which I cannot avoid. Tonight the streets are too dangerous. Perhaps I shall return in the morning.”
The tragedy had stunned them both. A bitter remorse filled Savrola’s heart. Her life was ruined—was he the cause? He could not say how far he was guilty or innocent; but the sadness of it all was unaltered, no matter who might be at fault. “Goodbye,” he said rising. “I must go, though I leave my heart behind. Much depends on me—the lives of friends, the liberties of a nation.”
And so he departed to play a great game in the face of all the world, to struggle for those ambitions which form the greater part of man’s interest in life; while she, a woman, miserable and now alone, had no resource but to wait.
And then suddenly the bells began to ring all over the city with quick impatient strokes. There was the sound of a far-off bugle-call and a dull report—the boom of an alarm-gun. The tumult grew; the roll of a drum beating the assembly was heard at the end of the street; confused shoutings and cries rose from many quarters. At length one sound was heard which put an end to all doubts—tap, tap, tap, like the subdued slamming of many wooden boxes—the noise of distant musketry.
The revolution had begun.
XVI
The Progress of the Revolt
Meanwhile the President and his two followers pursued their way through the city. Many people were moving about the streets, and here and there dark figures gathered in groups. The impression that great events were impending grew; the very air was sultry and surcharged with whisperings. The barricade, which was being built outside Savrola’s house, had convinced Molara that a rising was imminent; half a mile from the palace the way was blocked by another. Three carts had been stopped and drawn across the street, and about fifty men were working silently to strengthen the obstruction: some pulled up the flat paving-stones; others were carrying mattresses and boxes filled with earth from the adjacent houses; but they paid little attention to the President’s party. He turned up his collar and pressing his felt hat well down on his face clambered over the barrier—the significance of what he saw filling his mind; the Subaltern indeed in his undress uniform drew some curious looks, but no attempt was made to stop his progress. These men waited
