Stolen Souls

I was not prepared for this stinging rebuff. We passed the front of the Casino, strolling through the shady gardens facing the Concha, and when we had rested upon a convenient seat, pleasantly sheltered from the sun, she grew communicative again. While I had been telling her of my journey over the Pyrenees to Madrid, her grief had been succeeded by gaiety, and when I related some amusing contretemps that had befallen me at a wayside posada in the Sierra de Guara, she laughed lightly. At length at my request, she drew out a silver case, and, in exchange for my card, gave me one bearing the name “Doroteita d’Avendaño.”

Then, with an ingenuousness that enhanced her personal charms, she told me of herself, that she was the only daughter of the Count Miguel d’Avendaño, who had represented Castillejo in the Senate, but who had died a year ago. The widowed Countess – who had been her companion on the previous night – had let their mansion in the Calle Ancha de San Bernardo at Madrid to a wealthy foreigner, and since that time her mother and herself had been travelling, spending the winter at Cannes, the spring at Seville, and coming to San Sebastian for a few weeks previous to going north to Paris. She pointed out their villa from where we sat, a great white house with a terrace in front, standing out against a background of foliage on the side of the hill overlooking the bay. The Count, her father, had, I knew, been one of the most celebrated of Spanish statesmen. Referring to many well-known personages at Court as her friends, her observations regarding their little idiosyncrasies were full of dry humour. With a versatility of narrative she told me many little anecdotes of the Queen-Regent and the infant monarch, the knowledge of which betrayed an intimacy with the domestic arrangements of the palace, and for fully an hour gossiped on pleasantly.

“And amid this life of gaiety and happiness I find you kneeling in yonder church, abandoned to melancholy!” I observed at length, half reproachfully.

The light died out of her face.

“True,” she sighed. “Sometimes for an hour or so I manage to forget, but sooner or later the sorrow that overshadows my life recurs to me in all its hideous reality, and when I am alone it overwhelms me. To the world I am compelled to appear chic, happy, and thoughtless. Few, indeed, who know me are aware that my feigned laughter is but a bitter wail of lamentation, that beneath my smile lies a broken heart.”

“And your lover? Was he faithless? What of him?”

“What of him!” she gasped hoarsely, rising from the seat with her hands clenched. “I – I know nothing of him,” she added, with a strange look in her eyes.

She laughed a hollow laugh, and as she drew on her long suède gloves, the bells of San Vicente announced the noon.

“I have been out too long already,” she added, hurriedly rising. “We must part.”

“May I not accompany you towards your home?” I asked.

“No, m’sieur,” she answered firmly, holding out her hand.

“And when shall we resume our chat?” I asked.

She hesitated, gazing away to the misty cliffs across the bay. I half feared she would refuse to meet me again.

“If you are not bored by my wretchedness and bad temper,” she said at last, with a sad smile, “I will be here to-morrow morning, at eleven.”

“I shall not fail to keep the appointment,” I said, delighted. “Meanwhile try and forget your secret; try and be equally happy with those around you, and remember that at least you have one sympathiser, even though he is almost a stranger.”

Tears welled in her beautiful eyes as I clasped her hand.

“Thank you,” she said in a low voice, trembling with emotion. “I – I appreciate your sympathy. Au revoir, m’sieur, sans adieu.”

For an instant our eyes met, then, turning towards the Concha, she walked away, and was, a few seconds later, hidden by a bend in the path.

I strolled back to the Ezcurra, utterly mystified. Women’s ways are as many and as devious as “luck’s lines” on one’s hand, but the Señorita Doroteita was an enigma. I was not one of those “minor lovers” whose petty passions could be caged in a triolet, for her marvellous beauty and exquisite grace now held me in fascination.

No solution of the political crisis presented itself. In those agitated and troublous times under which Spain was labouring, I was compelled to make a daily journey to Bayonne, a distance of thirty-four miles, in order to dispatch my telegram to London. The Carlists were active; the various political parties were holding conferences incessantly; in military circles dissatisfaction was being openly expressed, and there were sinister rumours of a projected coup d’état. With Señor Canovas del Castillo, Señor Romero y Robledo, and Señor Navarro Reverter I had had short interviews, the substance of which had been transmitted to London; and spending the brilliant sunny mornings in strolling with my enchanting señorita, the afternoons in writing, and the evenings in travelling to and fro across the frontier, the days glided by, and I took no count of them. In the course of those charming morning rambles we had visited Los Pasajes and Monte Iguëldo, we had strolled along the Paseo de Ategorrita, and ascended Monte Orgullo to enjoy the view of the Pyrenees, and each hour I spent with her increased my admiration. She had discarded the mantilla, and was always dressed in gowns and hats that were unmistakably from the Rue de la Paix. Patrician refinement was stamped upon every line of her handsome countenance, and her conversation was always bright, witty, and delightful. One day, while we were walking along the Paseo de Ategorrita, beside the sea, outside the town, I explained to her how, as a newspaper correspondent, I was exceedingly anxious to obtain reliable information regarding the situation, and the earliest intimation as to the formation of the new Cabinet.

Then, as she expressed herself interested in journalism, I related in reply to her questions some of my adventures in pursuit of news. She was, I found, quite an enthusiast in politics, for she gave a critical opinion upon the probable policy of the various parties, declaring that the day of revolutions by pronunciamiento had not gone by, adding emphatic arguments that would have done credit to any member of the Chamber. I told her of the details I had already sent to London describing the efforts of Señor Canovas del Castillo to form a new Cabinet; but, after hearing all I had ascertained regarding a probable solution of the crisis, she shook her head, and, laughing, said —

“I believe your information has somewhat misled you. Although the deadlock is even more serious than you anticipate, yet matters may be temporarily adjusted at any moment.”

“And when they are, I shall, alas! be compelled to bid you adieu,” I said sorrowfully. “The memory of these few bright, happy days will dwell always within me.”

In silence she gazed for a few moments away upon the broad expanse of green sunlit sea. Then she exclaimed —

“And you will return to London – and – and – forget me!”

“No, never, Doroteita,” I said passionately. “I shall always look upon these as the happiest hours of my life!”

Her breast rose and fell. As we walked together, I held her small, well-gloved hand in mine, breathing into her ear the tender passion that had overwhelmed me. I scarce know what words I uttered, but she heard me patiently in pensive silence until I had concluded. Then, withdrawing her hand slowly but firmly, she replied in a voice that betrayed emotion —

“No, no. Our relationship can never be closer than that of friends. Our lives lie so very, very far apart.”

“Ah, I know!” I cried in disappointment, stopping and gazing straight into her great liquid eyes. “If I were wealthy, I might dare to ask for your hand. As it is, Doroteita – as it is, may I not entertain hope?”

Slowly and sadly she shook her head.

“But I love you.”

“That I do not doubt,” she said huskily, sighing heavily.

“You do not reciprocate my affection sufficiently,” I hazarded.

“I did not say so,” she replied quickly, raising her dark lashes for an instant. “Perhaps I may even love you with as fierce a passion as you yourself have betrayed. Yet, though that may be so, we can never marry – never!”

“May I not know the reason?” I asked.

“No,” she answered, with her eyes fixed seaward. “Soon I shall die – then perhaps you will ascertain the truth. Until then, let us be friends, not lovers.”

I was sorely puzzled, for the mystery was so tantalising. Times without number I sought by artfully concealed questions to penetrate it, but she frustrated every effort, and when we parted outside the Casino at noon, my bewitching señorita grasped my hand in farewell, saying —

“We are true friends. Let us trust each other.”

“We do,” I answered, bending with reverence over the hand I held. “Our friendship will, I hope, last always – always.”

Her heart seemed too full for further words, for her luminous eyes were filled with tears as she disengaged her hand and turned slowly away with uneven steps.

Again and again we met, but on each occasion I spoke of love, she requested me kindly but firmly to refrain from discussing the subject.

“It is enough,” she said, one morning, while we were strolling in the Calle Santa Catalina – “enough that, in idling away a few hours each morning, we do not bore each other. Let us live for the present, enjoying to the full the few pleasant rambles that remain to us. Then, when we have parted, only pleasant memories will remain.”

Sometimes I met her driving in the afternoon, or walking along the Concha in the evening with the Countess. Then she would smile a graceful recognition, but, being only a chance acquaintance, I was not introduced, neither was I invited to the Villa Guipuzcoa.

Late one afternoon, a fortnight after our first meeting, I returned to the Ezcurra from a long walk, having parted from her as usual, outside the Casino, when Señor Cos Gayon, a well-known member of the Senate, told me that Señor Canovas del Castillo had that morning had an audience of the Queen-Regent, and had at last undertaken to form a new Cabinet. This was an important piece of intelligence, inasmuch as it showed that the Conservatives would again hold office, and that, the loyalty of the military thus being assured, all fear of revolutionary troubles was at an end. Having spent an hour chatting with half a dozen politicians staying at the hotel, I ascended to my room to write a long dispatch descriptive of the situation.

The afternoon seemed too bright and balmy for work, therefore, before sitting down to my correspondence, I went out upon the balcony, and there smoked and dreamed until the shadows lengthened and over the broad waters of the Bay of Biscay there hung a glorious golden haze. A cool wind at last sprang up, and, returning into my room, I sat down and commenced to pen the latest intelligence for publication in London on the following morning. After writing about a quarter of an hour, voices in the adjoining room attracted my attention. Then suddenly I remembered that it was the Conservative leader’s sitting-room. With the names of well-known politicians falling upon my ear, I crept noiselessly across the polished floor to the locked door that divided the two apartments. Then, placing my ear close against the door, I stood on the alert.

My heart beat quickly, for in a few moments I ascertained that a meeting was in progress to decide upon the formation of the Cabinet. I recognised the voice of Señor Canovas, who acted as president, and there must have been fully eighteen or twenty of the most prominent members of his party present. With paper and pencil in hand, I listened to the discussion, as each name was submitted for the eight principal offices of State, Señor Canovas himself being, of course, President of the Council. The first business was the acceptance of the chief of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs by the Duke of Tetuan, and it was agreed without a single dissentient that Señor Romero y Robledo should become Minister of Justice. Señor Bosch and Señor Castellanos accepted office as Ministers of Public Works and the Colonies respectively; but a discussion lasting nearly an hour took place regarding the Ministry of Finance, until an agreement was at length arrived at that to Señor Navarro Reverter the portfolio should again be allotted. Protracted discussions also ensued regarding the appointment of the Ministers of Marine, War, and the Interior, and it was not until nearly seven that these appointments were made. Then Señor Canovas read a complete list of the newly-formed Cabinet, – each member of which was present, and expressed his acceptance of office, – afterwards stating that the crisis was at an end, and that at noon on the following day he had arranged to place the list in the hands of the Queen-Regent.

Little did the President of the Council dream that the list he had read out had been carefully noted by an eavesdropping journalist, and that even while his colleagues were congratulating each other upon the amicable solution of the crisis, the correspondent was busy preparing a list of the new Cabinet, which would be published in London in the morning, and known throughout England many hours before it became public in Spain.

Congratulating myself upon my good fortune, I finished my dispatch, waited until all the politicians had left the President’s room, and then descended to the table d’hôte. Opposite me sat Señor Romero y Robledo, the new Minister of Justice, but in reply to my carefully-veiled inquiries he gave no sign that a Cabinet had been formed. The decision was, I knew, a profound secret until the Queen had given her assent. While idling over dessert, with just an hour to catch my train to Bayonne, the waitress handed me a note, stating that a man-servant awaited a reply.

On the envelope was a great gilt crest, and the address was written in an unfamiliar angular hand. As I tore it open, a breath of sweet perfume greeted my nostrils, and the words I read in French were as follows: —

“Villa Guipuzcoa, July 22.