The Napoleon of Notting Hill, G. K. Chesterton [latest books to read .TXT] 📗

“I know,” said Auberon, vaguely mollified. “Where’s it been all the time?”

Barker swung round, not without resentment.

“I am sorry, sir,” he said, shortly but civilly, “none of us seem to have anything red to lend you. But why, if one may ask⁠—”

“I thank you, Señor, it is nothing. I can, since there is nothing else, fulfil my own requirements.”

And standing for a second of thought with the penknife in his hand, he stabbed his left palm. The blood fell with so full a stream that it struck the stones without dripping. The foreigner pulled out his handkerchief and tore a piece from it with his teeth. The rag was immediately soaked in scarlet.

“Since you are so generous, Señor,” he said, “another pin, perhaps.”

Lambert held one out, with eyes protruding like a frog’s.

The red linen was pinned beside the yellow paper, and the foreigner took off his hat.

“I have to thank you all, gentlemen,” he said; and wrapping the remainder of the handkerchief round his bleeding hand, he resumed his walk with an overwhelming stateliness.

While all the rest paused, in some disorder, little Mr. Auberon Quin ran after the stranger and stopped him, with hat in hand. Considerably to everybody’s astonishment, he addressed him in the purest Spanish⁠—

“Señor,” he said in that language, “pardon a hospitality, perhaps indiscreet, towards one who appears to be a distinguished, but a solitary guest in London. Will you do me and my friends, with whom you have held some conversation, the honour of lunching with us at the adjoining restaurant?”

The man in the green uniform had turned a fiery colour of pleasure at the mere sound of his own language, and he accepted the invitation with that profusion of bows which so often shows, in the case of the Southern races, the falsehood of the notion that ceremony has nothing to do with feeling.

“Señor,” he said, “your language is my own; but all my love for my people shall not lead me to deny to yours the possession of so chivalrous an entertainer. Let me say that the tongue is Spanish but the heart English.” And he passed with the rest into Cicconani’s.

“Now, perhaps,” said Barker, over the fish and sherry, intensely polite, but burning with curiosity, “perhaps it would be rude of me to ask why you did that?”

“Did what, Señor?” asked the guest, who spoke English quite well, though in a manner indefinably American.

“Well,” said the Englishman, in some confusion, “I mean tore a strip off a hoarding and⁠ ⁠… er⁠ ⁠… cut yourself⁠ ⁠… and.⁠ ⁠…”

“To tell you that, Señor,” answered the other, with a certain sad pride, “involves merely telling you who I am. I am Juan del Fuego, President of Nicaragua.”

The manner with which the President of Nicaragua leant back and drank his sherry showed that to him this explanation covered all the facts observed and a great deal more. Barker’s brow, however, was still a little clouded.

“And the yellow paper,” he began, with anxious friendliness, “and the red rag.⁠ ⁠…”

“The yellow paper and the red rag,” said Fuego, with indescribable grandeur, “are the colours of Nicaragua.”

“But Nicaragua⁠ ⁠…” began Barker, with great hesitation, “Nicaragua is no longer a.⁠ ⁠…”

“Nicaragua has been conquered like Athens. Nicaragua has been annexed like Jerusalem,” cried the old man, with amazing fire. “The Yankee and the German and the brute powers of modernity have trampled it with the hoofs of oxen. But Nicaragua is not dead. Nicaragua is an idea.”

Auberon Quin suggested timidly, “A brilliant idea.”

“Yes,” said the foreigner, snatching at the word. “You are right, generous Englishman. An idea brillant, a burning thought. Señor, you asked me why, in my desire to see the colours of my country, I snatched at paper and blood. Can you not understand the ancient sanctity of colours? The Church has her symbolic colours. And think of what colours mean to us⁠—think of the position of one like myself, who can see nothing but those two colours, nothing but the red and the yellow. To me all shapes are equal, all common and noble things are in a democracy of combination. Wherever there is a field of marigolds and the red cloak of an old woman, there is Nicaragua. Wherever there is a field of poppies and a yellow patch of sand, there is Nicaragua. Wherever there is a lemon and a red sunset, there is my country. Wherever I see a red pillar-box and a yellow sunset, there my heart beats. Blood and a splash of mustard can be my heraldry. If there be yellow mud and red mud in the same ditch, it is better to me than white stars.”

“And if,” said Quin, with equal enthusiasm, “there should happen to be yellow wine and red wine at the same lunch, you could not confine yourself to sherry. Let me order some Burgundy, and complete, as it were, a sort of Nicaraguan heraldry in your inside.”

Barker was fiddling with his knife, and was evidently making up his mind to say something, with the intense nervousness of the amiable Englishman.

“I am to understand, then,” he said at last, with a cough, “that you, ahem, were the President of Nicaragua when it made its⁠—er⁠—one must, of course, agree⁠—its quite heroic resistance to⁠—er⁠—”

The ex-President of Nicaragua waved his hand.

“You need not hesitate in speaking to me,” he said. “I’m quite fully aware that the whole tendency of the world of today is against Nicaragua and against me. I shall not consider it any diminution of your evident courtesy if you say what you think of the misfortunes that have laid my republic in ruins.”

Barker looked immeasurably relieved and gratified.

“You are most generous, President,” he said, with some hesitation over the title, “and I will take advantage of your generosity to express the doubts which, I must confess, we moderns have about such things as⁠—er⁠—the Nicaraguan independence.”

“So your sympathies are,” said Del Fuego, quite calmly, “with the big nation which⁠—”

“Pardon me, pardon me, President,” said Barker, warmly; “my