In addition, a few parliamentary honors had come his way; the “Grand Cross” had been given him, as it is given to most deputies of a certain length of service—­from membership, eventually, on committees charged with representing the legislative branch of the government at formal public functions.  If an “Answer to the Message” was to be taken “to the Palace,” he was one of those chosen for the purpose; and he trembled with emotion to think of what his mother, his wife, all the people down yonder at home would say if they could see him riding there in the sumptuous carriage of state, preceded by bright-liveried horsemen and saluted by trumpets blaring the royal march!  He was also usually among the delegates who came out on the staircase of the Congress to welcome Their Majesties on the opening of a parliament.  Finally, for one session, he was on “the Committee for the Interior,” an appointment that raised his prestige a thousand percent among the ushers.

“That fellow Brull,” they would say in the Chamber, “will be somebody the day his party returns to power.”

Well, now “the Party” was in power again.  During one of those ordered, calculated “changes of direction” to which Spain lives subject, because of its parliamentary system of party weights and party balances, the Conservatives captured the premiership; and Rafael went on the budget committee.  There he would do something more than make interpellations when he opened his mouth to speak.  In fact he had to win his spurs, justify his filling one of those posts which, according to report, his chief was holding for him.

The green deputies, the younger set constituting the new majority, elect and triumphant through grace of the Ministry of the Interior, respected him and deferred to what he said, much as students listen to a tutor who they know receives his orders from the master directly—­the subordination of freshmen, as it were, to the sophomore who knows the rules.

Whenever a vote was being taken and the Opposition was excited over the chance of putting the government in the minority, the Premier would look about anxiously over the hall for Brull.

“See here, Brull, better bring your people in; we’re going to have a close call.”

And Brull, proud at being noticed thus, would dash out like a streak of lightning while the bells were ringing and the ushers were running about summoning the deputies to vote.  He would make the rounds of the desks in the writing rooms, elbow his way into groups in the corridors; and filling with self-importance because of the authority conferred upon him, he would rudely shoo the ministerial flock off toward the Chamber, grumbling fogeywise and assuring them that “in his time,” when he was serving his first term, there was “far better discipline.”  When the vote was all in and the victory won, he would sigh with satisfaction.  He had saved the government!  And perhaps the nation!

At times a residue of the sincerity and frankness of his character as a boy would rise to the surface in him.  Then cruel doubts would assail his faith in himself.  Weren’t they all playing a stupid comedy there without the slightest wit or sense in it?  Really was what they said and did there of the slightest importance to the country—­to anybody?