“Are you looking for some one?” asked Sarrion.

“General Pacheco,” was the reply; and then, after a pause, “Here he comes.  He is attended by three aides-de-camp and a squadron of orderlies.  He carries his head very high.”

“But his feet are on the ground,” commented Sarrion, who was rolling himself a cigarette.  “Shall we invite him to come with us?”

“Yes.”

General Pacheco was one of those soldiers of the fifties who owed their success to a handsome face.  He wore a huge moustache, curling to his eyes, and had the air of an invincible conqueror—­of hearts.  He had dined.  He was going to take up his new command in the North.  He walked, as the French say, on air, and he certainly swaggered in his gait on that thin base.  He was hardly surprised to see the Count Sarrion, one of the exclusives who had never accepted Queen Isabella’s new military aristocracy, with his hat in one hand and the other extended towards him, on the platform awaiting his arrival.

“You will travel with us,” said Sarrion.  And the General accepted, looking round to see that his attendants were duly impressed.

“I find,” he said, seating himself and accepting a cigarette from Sarrion, “that each new success in life brings me new friends.”

“Making it necessary to abandon the old ones,” suggested Sarrion.

“No, no,” laughed the General, with a cackle, and a patronising hand upheld against the mere thought.  “One only adds to the number as one goes on; just as one adds to a little purse against the change of fortune, eh?”

And he looked from one to the other still, brown face with a cunning twinkle.  Sarrion was a man of the world.  He knew that this expansiveness would not last.  It would probably give way to melancholy or somnolence in the course of half an hour.  These things are a matter of the digestion.  And many vows of friendship are made by perfectly sober persons who have dined, with a sincerity which passes off next morning.  The milk of human kindness should be allowed to stand overnight in order to prove its quality.

“Ah,” said Sarrion, “you speak from a happy experience.”

“No, no,” protested the other, gravely.  “It is a small thing—­a mere bagatelle in the French Rentes—­but one sees one’s opportunities, one sees one’s opportunities.”

He made a gesture with the two fingers that held his cigarette, which seemed to be a warning to the Sarrions not to make any mistake as to the shrewdness of him who spoke to them.

“Speak for yourself,” said Sarrion, with a laugh.

“I do,” insisted the other, leaning forward.  “I speak essentially for myself.  One does not mind admitting it to a man like yourself.  All the world knows that you are a Carlist at heart.”

“Does it?”

“Yes—­and you must take comfort.  I think you are on the right road now.”

“I hope we are.”

“I am sure of it.  Money.  That is the only way.  To go to the right people with money in both hands.”