Stirring times, too, were nearer at hand across the
Mediterranean. For things were approaching a
deadlock on the Tiber, and that river, too, must,
it seemed, flow with blood before the year ran out.
For the greatest catastrophe that the Church has had
to face was preparing in the new and temporary capital
of Italy; and all men knew that the word must soon
go forth from Florence telling the monarch of the Vatican
that he must relinquish Rome or fight for it.
Spain, in her awkward search for a king hither and
thither over Europe, had thrown France and Germany
into war. And Evasio Mon probably knew of the
historic scene at Ems as soon as any man in the Peninsula;
for history will undoubtedly show, when a generation
or so has passed away, that the latter stages of Napoleon’s
declaration of war were hurried on by priestly intrigue.
It will be remembered that Bismarck was the deadliest
and cleverest foe that Jesuitism has had.
Mon knew what the talkers in the market-place were
saying to each other. He probably knew what they
were afraid to say to each other. For Spain was
still seeking a king—might yet set other
nations by the ears. The Republic had been tried
and had miserably failed. There was yet a Don
Carlos, a direct descendant of the brother whom Ferdinand
the beloved cheated out of his throne. There
was a Don Carlos. Why not Don Carlos, since we
seek a king? the men in the Phrygian caps were saying
to each other. And that was what Mon wanted them
to say.
After dark he came out into the streets again, cloaked
to the lips against the evening air. He went
to the large cafe by the river, and there seemed to
meet many acquaintances.
The next morning he continued his journey, by road
now, and on horseback. He sat a horse well, but
not with that comfort which is begotten of a love
of the animal. For him the horse was essentially
a means of transport, and all other animals were looked
at in a like utilitarian spirit.
In every village he found a friend. As often
as not he was the first to bring the news of war to
a people who have scarcely known peace these hundred
years. The teller of news cannot help telling
with his tidings his own view of them; and Evasio
Mon made it known that in his opinion all who had
a grievance could want no better opportunity of airing
it.
Thus he traveled slowly through the country towards
Montserrat; and wherever his slight, black-clad form
and serene face had passed, the spirit of unrest was
left behind. In remote Aragonese villages, as
in busy Catalan towns where the artisan (that disturber
of ancient peace) was already beginning to add his
voice to things of Spain, Evasio Mon always found
a hearing.
Needless to say he found in every village Venta, in
every Posada of the towns, that which is easy to find
in this babbling world—a talker.
And Evasio Mon was a notable listener.
