The ominous silence that followed the cessation of the firing did not last long. It was while Lucile was being coaxed by Bettine to eat some custard-pudding that she had made on purpose for her, that the report of the first great gun reached them. The tremendous explosion, though a long way off, made the windows rattle. She shuddered. What was this? She had hoped that all was over; but one explosion succeeded another, until the thunder of a cannonade from the harbour almost drowned their voices. It was a weary waiting for the two women.
XIX
An Educational Experience
Lieutenant Tiro reached the Mayoralty in safety, for though the streets were full of excited people, they were peaceful citizens, and on his proclaiming that he had been sent to see Savrola they allowed him to pass. The Municipal building was a magnificent structure of white stone, elaborately decorated with statuary and sculpture. In front of it, surrounded by iron railings and accessible by three gateways, stretched a wide courtyard, in which a great fountain, encircled by the marble figures of departed civic magnates, played continually with agreeable effect. The whole edifice was worthy of the riches and splendour of the Lauranian capital.
Two sentries of the rebel forces stood on guard with fixed bayonets at the central gateway, and allowed none to enter without due authority. Messengers were hurrying across the courtyard incessantly, and orderlies coming or going at a gallop. Without the gates a large crowd, for the most part quiet, though greatly agitated, filled the broad thoroughfare. Wild rumours circulated at random in the mass and the excitement was intense. The sound of distant firing was distinct and continuous.
Tiro made his way through the crowd without much difficulty, but found his path blocked by the sentries at the gateway. They refused to allow him to proceed, and for a moment he feared that he had run his risks in vain. Luckily, however, he was recognised as Molara’s aide-de-camp by one of the Municipal attendants who were loitering in the courtyard. He wrote his name on a piece of paper and requested the man to take it to Savrola or, as he was now styled, the President of the Council of Public Safety. The servant departed, and after ten minutes returned with an officer, resplendent with the red sash of the Revolutionary party, who bade the Subaltern follow him forthwith.
The hall of the Mayoralty was full of excited and voluble patriots who were eager to serve the cause of Liberty, if it could be done without risking their lives. They all wore red sashes and talked loudly, discussing the despatches from the fight which arrived by frequent messengers and were posted on the walls. Tiro and his guide passed through the hall and hurrying along a passage arrived at the entrance of a small committee-room. Several ushers and messengers stood around it; an officer was on duty outside. He opened the door and announced the Subaltern.
“Certainly,” said a well-known voice, and Tiro entered. It was a small, wainscotted apartment with two tall and deeply set glazed windows shaded by heavy, faded curtains of reddish hue. Savrola was writing at a table in the middle of the room; Godoy and Renos were talking near one of the windows; another man, whom for the moment he did not recognise, was busily scribbling in the corner. The great Democrat looked up.
“Good morning, Tiro,” he said cheerily, then, seeing the serious and impatient look on the boy’s face, he asked him what had happened. Tiro told him quickly of the President’s wish to surrender the palace. “Well,” said Savrola, “Moret is there, and he has full powers.”
“He is dead.”
“How?” asked Savrola, in a low pained voice.
“Shot in the throat,” replied the Subaltern laconically.
Savrola had turned very white; he was fond of Moret and they had long been friends. A feeling of disgust at the whole struggle came over him; he repressed it; this was no time for regrets. “You mean that the crowd will accept no surrender?”
“I mean they have probably massacred them all by now.”
“What time was Moret killed?”
“A quarter-past twelve.”
Savrola took up a paper that lay beside him on the table. “This was sent off at half-past twelve.”
Tiro looked at it. It was signed “Moret” and ran as follows: “Am preparing for final assault. All well.”
“It is a forgery,” said the Subaltern simply. “I started myself before the half-hour, and Señor Moret had been dead ten minutes then. Somebody has assumed the command.”
“By Jove,” said Savrola getting up from the table. “Kreutze!” He caught up his hat and cane. “Come on; he will most certainly murder Molara, and probably the others, if he is not stopped. I must go there myself.”
“What?” said Renos. “Most irregular; your place is here.”
“Send an officer,” suggested Godoy.
“I have none to send of sufficient power with the people, unless you will go yourself.”
“I! No, certainly not! I would not think of it,” said Godoy quickly. “It would be useless; I have no authority over the mob.”
“That is not quite the tone you have adopted all the morning,” replied Savrola quietly, “or at least since the Government attack was repulsed.” Then turning to Tiro, he said, “Let us start.”
They were leaving the room when the Subaltern saw that the man who had been writing in the corner was looking at him. To his astonishment he recognised Miguel.
The Secretary bowed satirically. “Here we are again,” he said; “you were wise to follow.”
“You insult me,” said Tiro with profound contempt. “Rats leave a sinking ship.”
“The wiser they,” rejoined the Secretary; “they could do no good by staying. I have always heard that aides-de-camp are the first to leave a fight.”
“You are a damned dirty dog,” said the Subaltern falling back on a rudimentary form of repartee with which he was more familiar.
“I can wait no longer,” said Savrola in a voice that was a plain command. Tiro obeyed, and they left the room.
Walking down the
