The Key to Yesterday. Charles Buck
entrance of Steele and Saxon. Ribero, the only person present requiring introduction, rose to shake hands.
The attaché was trained in diplomacy, and the rudiments of diplomacy should teach the face to become a mask when need be, yet, as his eyes met those of Saxon, he suddenly and involuntarily stiffened. For just a moment, his outstretched hand hesitated with the impulse to draw back. The lips that had parted in a casual smile hardened rigidly, and the eyes that rested on the face of Steele’s celebrity were so intently focused that they almost stared. The byplay occupied only a moment, and, as Ribero had half-turned from the table to greet those entering at his back, it escaped the notice of everyone except Saxon himself. The newcomer felt the momentary bar of hostility that had been thrown between them and as quickly withdrawn. The next moment, he was shaking the extended hand, and hearing the commonplace:
“Much pleased, señor.”
Ribero felt a momentary flash of shame for the betrayal of such undiplomatic surprise, and made amends with added courtesy when he spoke.
The artist, dropping into his seat at the side of Miss Filson, felt a flush of pleasure at his position. For the instant, the other man’s conduct became a matter of negligible importance, and, when she turned to him with a friendly nod and smile, he forgot Ribero’s existence.
“Mr. Ribero,” announced Mr. Bellton, “was just about to tell us an interesting story when you two delinquents came in. I’m sure he still has the floor.”
The diplomat had forgotten what he had been saying. He was covertly studying the features of the man just beyond Miss Filson. The face was turned toward the girl, giving him a full view, and it was a steady, imperturbable face. Now, introduced as raconteur, he realized that he must say something, and at the moment, with a flash of inspiration, he determined to relate a bit of history that would be of interest at least to the narrator. It was not at all the story he might have told had he been uninterrupted, but it was a story that appealed to his diplomatic taste, because he could watch the other face as he told it and see what the other face might betray. This newcomer had jarred him from his usual poise. Now, he fancied it was the other’s turn to be startled.
“It was,” he said casually, “the narrowest escape from death that I have seen – and the man who escaped was an American.”
As Saxon raised his eyes, with polite interest, to those of the speaker, he became aware that they held for him a message of almost sardonic challenge. He felt that the story-teller was only ostensibly addressing the table; that the man was talking at him, as a prosecutor talks at the defendant though he may direct himself to the jury. The sense that brought this realization was perhaps telepathic. To the other eyes and ears, there were only the manner of the raconteur and the impersonal tone of generality.
“It occurred in Puerto Frio,” said the South American, reminiscently. He paused for a moment, and smiled at Saxon, as though expecting a sign of confusion upon the mention of the name, but he read only courteous interest and impenetrability.
“This countryman of yours,” he went on smoothly, his English touched and softened by the accent of the foreigner, “had indulged in the dangerous, though it would seem alluring, pastime of promoting a revolution. Despite his unscrupulous character, he was possessed of an engaging personality, and, on brief acquaintance, I, for one, liked him. His skill and luck held good so long that it was only when the insurgents were at the gates of the capital that a summary court-martial gave him the verdict of death. I have no doubt that by the laws of war it was a just award, yet so many men are guilty of peddling revolutions, and the demand for such wares is so great in some quarters, that he had my sympathy.” The speaker bowed slightly, as though conceding a point to a gallant adversary. It chanced that he was looking directly at Saxon as he bowed.
The painter became suddenly conscious that he was according an engrossed attention, and that the story-teller was narrowly watching his fingers as they twisted the stem of his sauterne glass. The fingers became at once motionless.
“He bore himself so undeniably well when he went out to his place against a blank wall in the plaza, escorted by the firing squad,” proceeded Señor Ribero evenly, “that one could not withhold admiration. The picture remains with me. The sun on the yellow cathedral wall … a vine heavy with scarlet blossoms like splashes of blood … and twenty paces away the firing squad with their Mausers.”
Once more, the speaker broke off, as though lost in retrospection of something well-remembered. Beyond the girl’s absorbed gaze, he saw that of the painter, and his dark eyes for an instant glittered with something like direct accusation.
“As they arranged the final details, he must have reflected somewhat grimly on the irony of things, for at that very moment he could hear the staccato popping of the guns he had smuggled past the vigilance of the customs. The sound was coming nearer – telling him that in a half-hour his friends would be victorious – too late to save him.”
As Ribero paused, little Miss Buford, leaning forward across the table, gave a sort of gasp.
“He was tall, athletic, gray-eyed,” announced the attaché irrelevantly; “in his eyes dwelt something of the spirit of the dreamer. He never faltered.”
The speaker lifted his sauterne glass to his lips, and sipped the wine deliberately.
“The teniente in command inquired if he wished to pray,” Ribero added then, “but he shook his head almost savagely. ‘No, damn you!’ he snapped out, as though he were in a hurry about it all, ‘Go on with your rat-killing. Let’s have it over with.’”
The raconteur halted in his narrative.
“Please go on,” begged Duska, in a low voice. “What happened?”
The foreigner smiled.
“They fired.” Then, as he saw the slight shudder of Duska’s white shoulder, he supplemented: “But each soldier had left the task for the others… Possibly, they sympathized with him; possibly, they sympathized with the revolution; possibly, each of the six secretly calculated that the other five would be sufficient. Quien sabe? At all events, he fell only slightly wounded. One bullet – ” he spoke thoughtfully, letting his eyes drop from Saxon’s face to the table-cloth where Saxon’s right hand lay – “one bullet pierced his right hand from back to front.”
Then, a half-whimsical smile crossed Ribero’s somewhat saturnine features, for Miss Filson had dropped her napkin on Saxon’s side, and, when the painter had stooped to recover it, he did not again replace the hand on the table.
“Before he could be fired on a second time,” concluded the diplomat with a shrug, “a new presidente was on his way to the palace. Your countryman was saved.”
If the hero of Ribero’s narrative was a malefactor, at least he was a malefactor with the sympathy of Mr. Bellton’s dinner-party, as was attested by a distinctly audible sigh of relief at the end of the story. But Señor Ribero was not quite through.
“It is not, after all, the story that discredits your countryman,” he explained, “but the sequel. Of course, he became powerful in the new régime. It was when he was lauded as a national hero that his high fortunes intoxicated him, and success rotted his moral fiber. Eventually, he embezzled a fortune from the government which he had assisted to establish. There was also a matter of – how shall I say? – of a lady. Then, a duel which was really an assassination. He escaped with blood on his conscience, presumably to enjoy his stolen wealth in his own land.”
“I have often wondered,” pursued Ribero, “whether, if that man and I should ever be thrown together again, he would know me … and I have often wished I could remember him only as the brave adventurer – not also as the criminal.”
As he finished, the speaker was holding Saxon with his eyes, and had a question in his glance that seemed to call for some expression from the other. Saxon bowed with a smile.
“It is an engrossing story.”
“I think,” said Duska suddenly, almost critically, “the first part was so good that it was a pity to spoil it with the rest.”
Señor Ribero smiled enigmatically into