no
police--no anything," was not a desirable residence; and, as I had no
call there, and weeks might elapse before another revolution might be
sprung, I gladly took train to the capital.

Madrid was tranquil, but with no more confidence in the duration of
tranquillity than when I left it. The army was still in a state akin to
disruption, with this difference--the rascals who had rifled the pockets
of the dead Ibarreta a few weeks before, would sell the bodies of their
slain officers now, if there was any resurrectionist near to make a bid.
Worse; I was given to understand that there were suspicions that the
gallant staff-colonel had been shot by his own men. The dismissed
gunners were still wearily beating the pavements, and a subscription
organized on their behalf among the officers of the other branches of
the service by the _Correo Militar_ was open. What were these gentlemen
to do? There was a rumour that they had been invited to enter the
French service, to which they would have been an undoubted acquisition,
bringing with them skill, scientific knowledge, and experience. But they
were Spaniards, not soldiers of fortune, and would decline to transfer
their allegiance, even if France were disposed to bid for it. Still, what
were they to do? In Spain as in Austria--

"Le militaire n'est pas riche,
Chacun salt ca."

But the _militaire_ must live. Othello's occupation being gone, the
artillery officers had no alternative but to do what Othello would have
done had he been a Spaniard--conspire.

The usual manoeuvring and manipulations were going on as preparation
for the election of the Constituent Cortes, and the extreme Republicans
were full of faith in their approaching triumph all along the line. They
were awaiting Senor Orense, but if he did not hasten it was thought
events so important would eclipse his arrival that, when he did come,
the Madrilenos would pay as small heed to him as the Parisians did to
Hugo when he surveyed the boulevards anew after years of exile. They
would honour him with a procession, and no more. The venerable
Republican, by the way, is a nobleman, Marquis of Albaida. But he is not
equal to the democratic pride of Mirabeau, marquis, who took a shop and
painted on the signboard, "_Mirabeau, marchand de draps._"

"If you are a true Republican, why don't you renounce your title?"
somebody asked once of Orense.

"If it were only myself was concerned I would willingly," responded t