Gallardo, still pale but smiling, saluted and repeated "Many thanks." He was moved by this outburst of popular enthusiasm, and proud of the fame that made them couple his name with that of his country.
A crowd of rough boys and dishevelled girls ran after the carriage as fast as their legs could carry them, as if they expected to find something extraordinary at the end of their mad career.
For an hour previously the Calle de Alcala had been a stream of carriages, between banks of crowded foot-passengers, all hurrying to the outskirts of the town. Every sort of vehicle, ancient or modern, figured in this transient but confused and noisy migration, from the pre-historic char-a-banc, come to light like an anachronism, to the modern motor car.
The trams passed along crowded bunches of passengers overflowing on to their steps. Omnibuses took up fares at the corner of the Calle de Sevilla, while the conductors shouted "Plaza! Plaza!" Mules covered with tassels, drawing carriages full of women in white mantillas and bright flowers, trotted along gaily to the tinkling of their silvery bells. Every moment could be heard exclamations of terror as some child, threading its way from one pavement to the other, regardless of the rushing stream of vehicles, emerged with the agility of a monkey from under the carriage wheels. Motor sirens shrieked and coachmen shouted. Newspaper sellers hawked leaflets giving a picture and history of the bulls which were going to fight, or the portraits and biographies of the famous toreros. Now and then a murmur of curiosity swelled the dull humming of the crowd.
Between the dark uniforms of the Municipal Guard rode showily dressed horsemen on lean miserable crocks, wearing gold-embroidered jackets, wide beaver sombreros with a pompon on one side like a cockade, and yellow padding on their legs. These were the picadors,[33] rough men of wild appearance who carried, clinging to the crupper behind their high Moorish saddles, a kind of devil dressed in red, the "Mono Sabio,"[34] the servant who had taken the horse to their houses.
The cuadrillas passed by in open carriages. The gold embroidery of the toreros flashing in the afternoon sun seemed to dazzle the crowd and excite all its enthusiasm. "There's Fuentes!" "That's El Bomba!" cried the people, and pleased at having recognised them, they followed the disappearing carriages with anxious eyes, just as if something were going to happen and they feared they would be late.
From the top of the Calle de Alcala, the whole length of the broad straight street could be seen lying white under the sun with its rows of trees beginning to turn green under the breath of spring. The balconies were black with onlookers and the roadway was only visible here and there amidst the swarming crowd which, on foot and in carriages, was making its way towards La Cibeles.[35]
From this point the ground rose between lines of trees and buildings and the vista was closed by the Puerta de Alcala outlined like a triumphal arch against the blue sky on which floated a few flecks of cloud like wandering swans.
Gallardo sat in silence, replying to the people only with his fixed smile. Since his first greeting to the banderilleros he had not uttered a word. They also were pale and silent with anxiety for the unknown. Now that they were amongst toreros they had laid aside as useless the swagger that was necessary in the presence of the public.
A mysterious inspiration seemed to tell the people of the coming of the last cuadrilla on its way to the Plaza. The group of ragamuffins who had run after the carriage acclaiming Gallardo had lost their breath and had scattered amongst the traffic, but all the same, people glanced behind them as though they felt the proximity of the famous torero and slackened their pace, lining the edge of the pavement so as to get a better view of him.
Women seated in the carriages rolling along turned their heads as they heard the tinkling bells of the trotting mules. Dull roars came from various groups standing on the pavement. These must have been demonstrations of enthusiasm for many waved their sombreros whilst others greeted him by flourishing their sticks.
Gallardo replied to all these salutations with the smile of a barber's block. With his thoughts far away, he took little notice of them. By his side sat El Nacional, the banderillero in whom he placed most trust, a big, hard man, older by ten years than himself, with a grave manner and eyebrows that met between his eyes. He was well known in the profession for his kindness of heart and sterling worth, and also for his political opinions.
"Juan, you will not have to complain of Madrid," said El Nacional, "you have taken the public by storm."
But Gallardo, as if he had not heard him but felt obliged to give vent to the thoughts that were weighing on him, replied, "My heart tells me that something will happen this afternoon."
As they arrived at la Cibeles the carriage stopped. A great funeral was passing through the Prado in the direction of Castellana and cut through the avalanche of carriages coming from the Calle de Alcala.
Gallardo turned still paler as he looked with terrified eyes at the passing of the silver cross and the procession of priests who broke into a mournful chant as they gazed, some with aversion others with envy, at the stream of godless people who were rushing to amuse themselves.
The espada hastened to take off his montero. His banderilleros did the same, with the exception of El Nacional.
"Curse you!" cried Gallardo, "Take off your cap, rascal."
He glared at him as if about to strike him, fully convinced, by some confused intuition, that this impiety would bring down on him the greatest misfortunes.
"All right, I'll take it off," said El Nacional, with the sulkiness of a thwarted child, as he saw the cross moving off, "I'll take it off but it is to the dead man!"
They were obliged to stop for some time to let the funeral cortège pass.
"Bad luck!" murmured Gallardo, his voice trembling with rage, "Who can have thought of bringing a funeral across the way to the Plaza? Curse them! I said something would happen to-day!"
El Nacional smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. "Superstition and fanaticism! God or Nature don't trouble about these things!"
These words which increased the irritation of Gallardo, seemed to dispel the grave preoccupation of the other toreros, and they began to laugh at their companion, as indeed they always did when he aired his favourite phrase, "God or Nature."
As soon as the way was clear the carriage resumed its former speed, travelling as fast as the mules could trot and passing all the other vehicles which were converging on the Plaza. On arriving there it turned to the left, making for the door, named "de Caballerizas,"[36] which led to the yards and stables, but compelled to pass slowly through the compact crowd.
Gallardo received another ovation as, followed by his banderilleros, he alighted from the carriage, pushing and elbowing his way in order to save his clothes from the touch of dirty hands, smiling greetings everywhere and hiding his right hand which everybody wished to shake.
"Make way, please, gentlemen!" "Many thanks."
The great courtyard between the main building of the Plaza and the boundary wall of its outbuildings was full of people who, before taking their seats, wished to get a near view of the bull-fighters, whilst on horseback, mounted high above the crowd, could be seen the picadors and the Alguaciles[37] in their Seventeenth Century costumes.
On one side of the courtyard stood a row of single-storey brick buildings, with vines trellised over the doors and pots of flowers in the windows. It was quite a small town of offices, workshops, stables and houses in which lived stablemen, carpenters and other servants of the bull-ring.
The diestro made his way laboriously through the various groups, and his name passed from lip to lip amidst exclamations of admiration.
"Gallardo!" "Here is El Gallardo!" "Olé! Viva España!"
And