The Snare
by Rafael Sabatini
(first published in 1917)
Chapter X
The Stifled Quarrel
It was noon of the next day before Colonel Grant came to the house at Monsanto from whose balcony floated the British flag, and before
whose portals stood a sentry in the tall bearskin of the grenadiers.
He found the adjutant alone in his room, and apologised for the
delay in responding to his invitation, pleading the urgency of other
matters that he had in hand.
"A wise enactment this of Lord Wellington's," was his next comment.
"I mean this prohibition of duelling. It may be resented by some
of our young bloods as an unwarrantable interference with their
privileges, but it will do a deal of good, and no one can deny that
there is ample cause for the measure."
"It is on the subject of the cause that I'm wanting to consult you,"
said Sir Terence, offering his visitor a chair. "Have you been
informed of the details? No? Let me give you them." And he related
how the dispatch bore signs of having been tampered with, and how
the only document of any real importance came to be missing from it.
Colonel Grant, sitting with his sabre across his knees, listened
gravely and thoughtfully. In the end he shrugged his shoulders, the
keen hawk face unmoved.
"The harm is done, and cannot very well be repaired. The information
obtained, no doubt on behalf of Massena, will by now be on its way to
him. Let us be thankful that the matter is not more grave, and
thankful, too, that you were able to supply a copy of Lord Liverpool's
figures. What do you want me to do?"
"Take steps to discover the spy whose existence is disclosed by this
event."
Colquhoun Grant smiled. "That is precisely the matter which has
brought me to Lisbon."
"How?" Sir Terence was amazed. "You knew?"
"Oh, not that this had happened. But that the spy—or rather a
network of espionage—existed. We move here in a web of intrigue
wrought by ill-will, self-interest, vindictiveness and every form
of malice. Whilst the great bulk of the Portuguese people and
their leaders are loyally co-operating with us, there is a strong
party opposing us which would prefer even to see the French prevail.
Of course you are aware of this. The heart and brain of all this
is—as I gather the Principal Souza. Wellington has compelled his
retirement from the Government. But if by doing so he has restricted
the man's power for evil, he has certainly increased his will for
evil and his activities.
"You tell me that Garfield was cared for by the parish priest at
Penalva. There you are. Half the priesthood of the country are on
Souza's side, since the Patriarch of Lisbon himself is little more
than a tool of Souza's. What happens? This priest discovers that
the British officer whom he has so charitably put to bed in his
house is the bearer of dispatches. A loyal man would instantly
have communicated with Marshal Beresford at Thomar. This fellow,
instead, advises the intriguers in Lisbon. The captain's dispatches
are examined and the only document of real value is abstracted. Of
course it would be difficult to establish a case against the priest,
and it is always vexatious and troublesome to have dealings with
that class, as it generally means trouble with the peasantry. But
the case is as clear as crystal."
"But the intriguers here? Can you not deal with them?"
"I have them under observation," replied the colonel. "I already
knew the leaders, Souza's lieutenants in Lisbon, and I can put my
hand upon them at any moment. If I have not already done so it is
because I find it more profitable to leave them at large; it is
possible, indeed, that I may never proceed to extremes against them.
Conceive that they have enabled me to seize La Fleche, the most
dangerous, insidious and skilful of all Napoleon's agents. I found
him at Redondo's ball last week in the uniform of a Portuguese major,
and through him I was able to track down Souza's chief instrument—I discovered them closeted with him in one of the card-rooms."
"And you didn't arrest them?"
"Arrest them! I apologised for my intrusion, and withdrew. La
Fleche took his leave of them. He was to have left Lisbon at dawn
equipped with a passport countersigned by yourself, my dear
adjutant."
"What's that?"
"A passport for Major Vieira of the Portuguese Cacadores. Do you
remember it?"
"Major Vieira!" Sir Terence frowned thoughtfully. Suddenly he
recollected. "But that was countersigned by me at the request of
Count Samoval, who represented himself a personal friend of the
major's."
"So indeed he is. But the major in question was La Fleche
nevertheless."
"And Samoval knew this?"
Sir Terence was incredulous.
Colonel Grant did not immediately answer the question. He preferred
to continue his narrative. "That night I had the false major
arrested very quietly. I have caused him to disappear for the
present. His Lisbon friends believe him to be on his way to
Massena with the information they no doubt supplied him. Massena
awaits his return at Salamanca, and will continue to wait. Thus
when he fails to be seen or heard of there will be a good deal of
mystification on all sides, which is the proper state of mind in
which to place your opponents. Lord Liverpool's figures, let me
add, were not among the interesting notes found upon him—possibly
because at that date they had not yet been obtained."
"And you say that Samoval was aware of the man's real identity?"
insisted Sir Terence, still incredulous. "Aware of it?" Colonel
Grant laughed shortly. "Samoval is Souza's principal agent—the
most dangerous man in Lisbon and the most subtle. His sympathies
are French through and through."
Sir Terence stared at him in frank amazement, in utter unbelief.
"Oh, impossible!" he ejaculated at last.
"I saw Samoval for the first time," said Colonel Grant by way of
answer, "in Oporto at the time of Soult's occupation. He did not
call himself Samoval just then, any more than I called myself
Colquhoun Grant. He was very active therein the French interest;
I should indeed be more precise and say in Bonaparte's interest,
for he was the man instrumental in disclosing to Soult the Bourbon
conspiracy which was undermining the marshal's army. You do not
know, perhaps, that French sympathy runs in Samoval's family. You
may not be aware that the Portuguese Marquis of Alorna, who holds
a command in the Emperor's army, and is at present with Massena at
Salamanca, is Samoval's cousin."
"But," faltered Sir Terence, "Count Samoval has been a regular
visitor here for the past three months."
"So I understand," said Grant coolly. "If I had known of it before
I should have warned you. But, as you are aware, I have been in
Spain on other business. You realise the danger of having such a
man about the place. Scraps of information—"
"Oh, as to that," Sir Terence interrupted, "I can assure you that
none have fallen from my official table."
"Never be too sure, Sir Terence. Matters here must ever be under
discussion. There are your secretaries and the ladies—and Samoval
has a great way with the women. What they know you may wager that
he knows."
"They know nothing."
"That is a great deal to say. Little odds and ends now; a hint at
one time; a word dropped at another; these things picked up
naturally by feminine curiosity and retailed thoughtlessly under
Samoval's charming suasion and display of Britannic sympathies. And
Samoval has the devil's own talent for bringing together the pieces
of a puzzle. Take the lines now: you may have parted with no details.
But mention of them will surely have been made in this household.
However," he broke off abruptly, "that is all past and done with. I
am as sure as you are that any real indiscretions in this household
are unimaginable, and so we may be confident that no harm has yet
been done. But you will gather from what I have now told you that
Samoval's visits here are not a mere social waste of time. That he
comes, acquires familiarity and makes himself the friend of the
family with a very definite aim in view."
"He does not come again," said Sir Terence, rising.
"That is more than I should have ventured to suggest. But it is a
very wise resolve. It will need tact to carry it out, for Samoval
is a man to be handled carefully."
"I'll handle him carefully, devil a fear," said Sir Terence. "You
can depend upon my tact."
Colonel Grant rose. "In this matter of Penalva, I will consider
further. But I do not think there is anything to be done now. The
main thing is to stop up the outlets through which information
reaches the French, and that is my chief concern. How is the
stripping of the country proceeding now?"
"It was more active immediately after Souza left the Government.
But the last reports announce a slackening again."
"They are at work in that, too, you see. Souza will not slumber
while there's vengeance and self-interest to keep him awake." And
he held out his hand to take his leave.
"You'll stay to luncheon?" said Sir Terence. "It is about to be
served."
"You are very kind, Sir Terence."
They descended, to find luncheon served already in the open under
the trellis vine, and the party consisted of Lady O'Moy, Miss
Armytage, Captain Tremayne, Major Carruthers, and Count Samoval,
of whose presence this was the adjutant's first intimation.
As a matter of fact the Count had been at Monsanto for the past
hour, the first half of which he had spent most agreeably on the
terrace with the ladies. He had spoken so eulogistically of the
genius of Lord Wellington and the valour of the British soldier,
and, particularly of the Irish soldier, that even Sylvia's
instinctive distrust and dislike of him had been lulled a little
for the moment.
"And they must prevail," he had exclaimed in a glow of enthusiasm,
his dark eyes flashing. "It is inconceivable that they should ever
yield to the French, although the odds of numbers may lie so
heavily against them."
"Are the odds of numbers so heavy?" said Lady O'Moy in surprise,
opening wide those almost childish eyes of hers.
"Alas! anything from three to five to one. Ah, but why should we
despond on that account?" And his voice vibrated with renewed
confidence. "The country is a difficult one, easy to defend, and
Lord Wellington's genius will have made the best of it. There are,
for example, the fortifications at Torres Vedras."
"Ah yes! I have heard of them. Tell me about them, Count."
"Tell you about them, dear lady? Shall I carry perfumes to the
rose? What can I tell you that you do not know so much better than
myself?"
"Indeed, I know nothing. Sir Terence is ridiculously secretive,"
she assured him, with a little frown of petulance. She realised
that her husband did not treat her as an intelligent being to be
consulted upon these matters. She was his wife, and he had no right
to keep secrets from her. In fact she said so.
"Indeed no," Samoval agreed. "And I find it hard to credit that it
should be so."
"Then you forget," said Sylvia, "that these secrets are not Sir
Terence's own. They are the secrets of his office."
"Perhaps so," said the unabashed Samoval. "But if I were Sir
Terence I should desire above all to allay my wife's natural anxiety.
For I am sure you must be anxious, dear Lady O'Moy."'
"Naturally," she agreed, whose anxieties never transcended the fit
of her gowns or the suitability of a coiffure. "But Terence is like
that."
"Incredible!" the Count protested, and raised his dark eyes to
heaven as if invoking its punishment upon so unnatural a husband.
"Do you tell me that you have never so much as seen the plans of
these fortifications? "
"The plans, Count!" She almost laughed.
"Ah!" he said. "I dare swear then that you do not even know of
their existence." He was jocular now.
"I am sure that she does not," said Sylvia, who instinctively felt
that the conversation was following an undesirable course.
"Then you are wrong," she was assured. "I saw them once, a week
ago, in Sir Terence's room."
"Why, how would you know them if you saw them?" quoth Sylvia,
seeking to cover what might be an indiscretion.
"Because they bore the name: 'Lines of Torres Vedras.' I remember."
"And this unsympathetic Sir Terence did not explain them to you?"
laughed Samoval.
"Indeed, he did not."
"In fact, I could swear that he locked them away from you at once?"
the Count continued on a jocular note.
"Not at once. But he certainly locked them away soon after, and
whilst I was still there."
"In your place, then," said Samoval, ever on the same note of
banter, "I should have been tempted to steal the key."
"Not so easily done," she assured him. "It never leaves his person.
He wears it on a gold chain round his neck."
"What, always?"
"Always, I assure you."
"Too bad," protested Samoval. "Too bad, indeed. What, then, should
you have done, Miss Armytage?"
It was difficult to imagine that he was drawing information from
them, so bantering and frivolous was his manner; more difficult
still to conceive that he had obtained any. Yet you will observe
that he had been placed in possession of two facts: that the plans
of the lines of Torres Vedras were kept locked up in Sir Terence's
own room—in the strong-box, no doubt—and that Sir Terence
always carried the key on a gold chain worn round his neck.
Miss Armytage laughed. "Whatever I might do, I should not be
guilty of prying into matters that my husband kept hidden."
"Then you admit a husband's right to keep matters hidden from his
wife?"
"Why not?"
"Madam," Samoval bowed to her, "your future husband is to be envied
on yet another count."
And thus the conversation drifted, Samoval conceiving that he had
obtained all the information of which Lady O'Moy was possessed, and
satisfied that he had obtained all that for the moment he required.
How to proceed now was a more difficult matter, to be very seriously
considered—how to obtain from Sir Terence the key in question, and
reach the plans so essential to Marshal Massena.
He was at table with them, as you know, when Sir Terence and Colonel
Grant arrived. He and the colonel were presented to each other, and
bowed with a gravity quite cordial on the part of Samoval, who was
by far the more subtle dissembler of the two. Each knew the other
perfectly for what he was; yet each was in complete ignorance of
the extent of the other's knowledge of himself; and certainly neither
betrayed anything by his manner.
At table the conversation was led naturally enough by Tremayne to
Wellington's general order against duelling. This was inevitable
when you consider that it was a topic of conversation that morning
at every table to which British officers sat down. Tremayne spoke
of the measure in terms of warm commendation, thereby provoking a
sharp disagreement from Samoval. The deep and almost instinctive
hostility between these two men, which had often been revealed in
momentary flashes, was such that it must invariably lead them to
take opposing sides in any matter admitting of contention.
"In my opinion it is a most arbitrary and degrading enactment," said
Samoval. "I say so without hesitation, notwithstanding my profound
admiration and respect for Lord Wellington and all his measures."
"Degrading?" echoed Grant, looking across at him. "In what can it
be degrading, Count?"
"In that it reduces a gentleman to the level of the clod," was the
prompt answer. "A gentleman must have his quarrels, however sweet
his disposition, and a means must be afforded him of settling them."
"Ye can always thrash an impudent fellow," opined the adjutant.
"Thrash?" echoed Samoval. His sensitive lip curled in disdain.
"To use your hands upon a man!" He shuddered in sheer disgust.
"To one of my temperament it would be impossible, and men of my
temperament are plentiful, I think."
"But if you were thrashed yourself?" Tremayne asked him, and the
light in his grey eyes almost hinted at a dark desire to be himself
the executioner.
Samoval's dark, handsome eyes considered the captain steadily. "To
be thrashed myself?" he questioned. "My dear Captain, the idea of
having hands laid upon me, soiling me, brutalising me, is so
nauseating, so repugnant, that I assure you I should not hesitate to
shoot the man who did it just as I should shoot any other wild beast
that attacked me. Indeed the two instances are exactly parallel,
and my country's courts would uphold in such a case the justice of
my conduct."
"Then you may thank God," said O'Moy, "that you are not under
British jurisdiction."
"I do," snapped Samoval, to make an instant recovery: "at least so
far as the matter is concerned." And he elaborated: "I assure you,
sirs, it will be an evil day for the nobility of any country when
its Government enacts against the satisfaction that one gentleman
has the right to demand from another who offends him."
"Isn't the conversation rather too bloodthirsty for a luncheon-table?"
wondered Lady O'Moy. And tactlessly she added, thinking with
flattery to mollify Samoval and cool his obvious heat: "You are
yourself such a famous swordsman, Count."
And then Tremayne's dislike of the man betrayed him into his
deplorable phrase.
"At the present time Portugal is in urgent need of her famous
swordsmen to go against the French and not to increase the
disorders at home."
A silence complete and ominous followed the rash words, and Samoval,
white to the lips, pondered the imperturbable captain with a baleful
eye.
"I think," he said at last, speaking slowly and softly, and picking
his words with care, "I think that is innuendo. I should be
relieved, Captain Tremayne, to hear you say that it is not."
Tremayne was prompt to give him the assurance. "No innuendo at all.
A plain statement of fact."
"The innuendo I suggested lay in the application of the phrase. Do
you make it personal to myself?"
"Of course not," said Sir Terence, cutting in and speaking sharply.
"What an assumption!"
"I am asking Captain Tremayne," the Count insisted, with grim
firmness, notwithstanding his deferential smile to Sir Terence.
"I spoke quite generally, sir," Tremayne assured him, partly under
the suasion of Sir Terence's interposition, partly out of
consideration for the ladies, who were looking scared. "Of course,
if you choose to take it to yourself, sir, that is a matter for your
own discretion. I think," he added, also with a smile, "that the
ladies find the topic tiresome."
"Perhaps we may have the pleasure of continuing it when they are no
longer present."
"Oh, as you please," was the indifferent answer. "Carruthers, may
I trouble you to pass the salt? Lady O'Callaghan was complaining
the other night of the abuse of salt in Portuguese cookery. It is
an abuse I have never yet detected."
"I can't conceive Lady O'Callaghan complaining of too much salt in
anything, begad," quoth O'Moy, with a laugh. "If you had heard the
story she told me about—"
"Terence, my dear!" his wife checked him, her fine brows raised, her
stare frigid.
"Faith, we go from bad to worse," said Carruthers. "Will you try
to improve the tone of the conversation, Miss Armytage? It stands
in urgent need of it."
With a general laugh, breaking the ice of the restraint that was in
danger of settling about the table, a semblance of ease was restored,
and this was maintained until the end of the repast. At last the
ladies rose, and, leaving the men at table, they sauntered off
towards the terrace. But under the archway Sylvia checked her
cousin.
"Una," she said gravely, "you had better call Captain Tremayne and
take him away for the present."
Una's eyes opened wide. "Why?" she inquired.
Miss Armytage was almost impatient with her. "Didn't you see?
Resentment is only slumbering between those men. It will break
out again now that we have left them unless you can get Captain
Tremayne away."
Una continued to look at her cousin, and then, her mind fastening
ever upon the trivial to the exclusion of the important, her glance
became arch. "For whom is your concern? For Count Samoval or Ned?"
she inquired, and added with a laugh: "You needn't answer me. It
is Ned you are afraid for."
"I am certainly not afraid for him," was the reply on a faint note
of indignation. She had reddened slightly. "But I should not like
to see Captain Tremayne or any other British officer embroiled in
a duel. You forget Lord Wellington's order which they were
discussing, and the consequences of infringing it."
Lady O'Moy became scared.
"You don't imagine—"
Sylvia spoke quickly: "I am certain that unless you take Captain
Tremayne away, and at once, there will be serious trouble."
And now behold Lady O'Moy thrown into a state of alarm that bordered
upon terror. She had more reason than Sylvia could dream, more
reason she conceived than Sylvia herself, to wish to keep Captain
Tremayne out of trouble just at present. Instantly, agitatedly,
she turned and called to him.
"Ned!" floated her silvery voice across the enclosed garden. And
again: "Ned! I want you at once, please."
Captain Tremayne rose. Grant was talking briskly at the time, his
intention being to cover Tremayne's retreat, which he himself
desired. Count Samoval's smouldering eyes were upon the captain,
and full of menace. But he could not be guilty of the rudeness of
interrupting Grant or of detaining Captain Tremayne when a lady
called him.
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