That night, however, I was not feeling in the least wretched, hidden there in the shadows with Angélica de Alquézar, opposite the Tavern of the Dog. We were sitting on my cloak, waiting, and now and then our bodies touched. She was looking at the door of the inn, and I was looking at her, and sometimes, when she moved, the spluttering torch on the wall opposite would illuminate her profile, the whiteness of her skin, a few locks of blond hair escaping from beneath her felt cap. In her tight-fitting doublet and breeches, she resembled a young page, but that impression was given the lie when a brighter light fell upon her pale, fixed, resolute gaze. Occasionally, she appeared to be studying me with great calm and penetration, peering into the innermost recesses of my soul. And when she had finished, and before she resumed her watch on the inn door, the lovely line of her mouth would curve into a smile.
“Tell me something about yourself,” she said suddenly.
I placed my sword between my legs and sat for a while, nonplussed, not knowing what to say. Finally, I spoke about the first time I had seen her, in Calle de Toledo, when she was still little more than a child. I spoke about the Fuente del Acero, the dungeons of the Inquisition, the shame of the auto-da-fé, about her letter to me in Flanders, about how I had thought of her when the Dutch charged us at the Ruyter Mill and at the Terheyden barracks, while I was running after Captain Alatriste, carrying the flag, convinced that I was going to die.
“What is war like?”
She seemed to be paying close attention to my mouth, to me or to my words. I suddenly felt very grown-up. Almost old.
“Dirty,” I said simply. “Dirty and gray.”
She shook her head slowly, as if pondering this thought. Then she asked me to go on talking, and the dirt and the grayness were relegated to just one part of my memory. I rested my chin on the hilt of my sword and talked more about us—her and me. About our meeting in the Alcázar in Seville and the ambush she had led me into next to the pillars of Hercules. About our first kiss as I stood on the running board of her carriage, moments before I had to fight for my life with Gualterio Malatesta. That, more or less, is what I said. No words of love, no feelings. I merely described our meetings, the part of my life that had to do with her, and I did so with as much equanimity as possible, detail by detail, just as I remembered it and always would.
“Don’t you believe that I love you?” she said.
We gazed at each other for what seemed like centuries, and my head started to swim as if I had drunk a potion. I opened my mouth to say something—although quite what I didn’t know—or to kiss her perhaps. Not the kind of kiss she had given me in the Plaza de Santo Domingo, but a long, hard kiss, filled with a simultaneous desire to bite and caress, and with all the vigor of youth about to burst in my veins. And she smiled at me, her lips only inches from my mouth, with the serene certainty of someone who knows and waits and is capable of transforming mere chance into a man’s inevitable fate, as if long before I was born, everything had been written down in an ancient book which she kept in her possession.
“Yes, I believe . . .” I started to say.
Then her expression changed. Her eyes shifted rapidly back to the tavern door, and I followed her gaze. Two men had come out into the street, hats pulled down low over their eyes; there was a furtive air about them as they put on their cloaks. One of them was wearing a yellow doublet.
We followed them cautiously through the dark city streets. We did our best not to make a noise as we walked, trying not to lose sight of their black shapes ahead of us. Fortunately, they suspected nothing and followed a clear route: from Calle de Tudescos to Calle de la Verónica, and from there to Postigo de San Martín, which they followed as far as San Luis de los Franceses. There they paused to doff their hats to a priest who was just coming out of the church, accompanied by an altar boy and a page bearing a lantern, obviously setting out to give someone the last rites. In the brief light cast by that lantern, I had a chance to study the two men we were following: apart from his eyes, the face of the man in the yellow doublet was entirely hidden by his black hat and cloak; he was wearing shoes and hose, and when he removed his hat, I noticed that he had fair hair. The other man was wearing a featherless hat, boots, and a gray cloak, which his sword lifted up behind; and as he was leaving the Tavern of the Dog, I caught a glimpse of his belt and noticed that, as well as the sword buckled on over his thick jerkin, he had a fine pair of pistols, too.
“They look like dangerous men,” I whispered to Angélica.
“And does that worry you?”
I was too offended to reply. The men continued walking, and we followed behind. A little farther on, in San Luis, next to the stone cross that still marks the site of one of the city’s old gates, we passed the stalls where they sold bread or food and drinks during the day; they were all closed and there was not a soul in sight. In Calle del Caballero de Gracia, the men stopped in a doorway to avoid a light advancing toward them; as the light passed us, we saw that it was a midwife hurrying to assist at a birth, her path lit by a nervous, harried husband. Then the two men continued on, always keeping to the part of the street where the moonlight did not reach. We pursued them for a fair distance through dark streets, past barred windows with shutters or lowered blinds, past startled cats, past the oily flames of candles in niches containing images of the Virgin or of saints, and, in the distance, we caught the occasional warning cry of someone emptying a chamber pot into the street. From an alleyway came the sound of clashing steel, of furious fighting, and the two men stopped to listen; the incident clearly held no interest for them, however, because they did not linger. When Angélica and I reached the same spot, a figure, his cloak masking his face, ran past us, sword in hand. I peered cautiously down the alley and saw nothing but more barred windows and flowerpots; then I heard someone at the far end moan. I sheathed my sword—I had whisked it out at the sight of the fugitive—and made as if to go to the aid of the wounded man, but Angélica gripped my arm.
“It’s not our business.”
“But someone might be dying,” I protested.
“We’ll all die one day.”
And she strode off after the two men, obliging me to follow her through the dark city. For that was how it was in Madrid at night: dark, uncertain, and threatening.
We followed the men as far as a house in the narrow upper part of Calle de los Peligros, halfway between Calle del Caballero de Gracia and the Convento de las Vallecas. Angélica and I stood in the street, unsure what to do, until she suggested that we take shelter beneath an arcade. We sat down on a bench hidden behind a stone pillar. It was getting colder and so I offered her my cloak, which she had already refused twice. This time she accepted, on condition that it serve to cover us both. And so I placed it over my shoulders and hers, which meant, of course, that we had to sit very close. You can imagine my state of mind. Head spinning, I sat resting my hands on the guard of my sword, filled by an inner excitement that prevented me from stringing two thoughts together. She, with lovely ease, kept watch on the house opposite. She seemed tenser now, but still showed a serenity and self-control admirable in a girl of her age and social class. We talked quietly, our shoulders touching. She still would not tell me what we were doing there.
“Later,” she would say each time I asked.
The roof of the arcade hid the moon, and her face was in shadow, a dark profile at my side. I was aware of the warmth of her body. I felt like someone who has willingly placed his neck in the hangman’s noose, but I didn’t care a jot. Angélica was beside me, and I would not have changed places with the safest, happiest man on earth.
“It isn’t really important,” I insisted. “I’d just like to know more.”
“About what?”
“About this madness you’re involved in.”
A mischievous silence ensued. Then she said gleefully:
“And in which you’re now involved too.”
“That’s precisely what worries me: not knowing what it is I’m inv
olved in.”
“You’ll find out.”
“I’m sure I will, but the last time that happened, I found myself surrounded by half a dozen killers, and the time before that, I ended up in one of the Inquisition’s dungeons.”
“I thought you were a bright, bold lad, Señor Balboa. Don’t you trust me?”
I hesitated before responding. This is what the devil does, I thought, he toys with people, with ambition, vanity, lust, fear. Even with people’s hearts. It is written: “All these things will I give you, if you fall down and worship me.” An intelligent devil doesn’t need to lie.
“Of course I trust you,” I said.
I heard her laugh softly. Then she moved a little closer to me under the cloak.
“You’re a fool,” she concluded very sweetly.
And she kissed me again, or, to be exact, we kissed each other, not once, but many times; and I put my arm around her shoulders and tentatively caressed her neck and shoulders and then, when she offered no resistance, I ran my hand very gently over the female curves beneath her velvet doublet. She laughed softly, her lips still pressed to mine, coming closer, then drawing back when my desire grew too intense. I swear to you, dear reader, that even if I had seen the fires of hell before me, I would have followed Angélica without a tremor, wherever she chose to lead me, prepared to defend her with my sword and to snatch her from the arms of Lucifer himself. At the risk, or, rather, the certainty of eternal damnation.
All of a sudden she pulled away. One of the two men had come out into the street. I threw off the cloak and stood up in order to get a better view. The man remained utterly still, as if watching or waiting. He remained like that for a while, then began pacing up and down, and I feared he might see us. Finally, his attention seemed to focus on the far end of the street. I followed his gaze and saw the silhouette of someone approaching, wearing hat, long cloak, and sword. He was walking down the middle of the street, as if he distrusted the shadows cast by the walls. He kept walking until he reached the other man. I noticed that his pace gradually slackened until they were both standing face-to-face. There was something about the way the second man moved that was familiar to me, especially the way in which he folded back his cloak to free up his sword. I stepped forward slightly, keeping close to the stone pillar, so that I could see more clearly. In the moonlight, I was astonished to discover that the new arrival was Captain Alatriste.
The first man, the stranger, was still there in the middle of the street, his cloak enveloping his face so that only his eyes were visible beneath the brim of his hat. In response, Diego Alatriste folded his cloak back over his left shoulder. His hand was already lightly touching the hilt of his sword when he stopped in front of the man blocking his way. He studied him with a practiced eye, calm, silent. If he’s alone, he decided, he’s either very brave, a professional swordsman, or else he’s carrying a pistol. Or perhaps all three. And at worst, he concluded, looking out of the corner of his eye, there are other men nearby. The question was this: Was he waiting for him or for someone else? At that hour, and outside that particular house, there was little doubt about the matter. It wasn’t Gonzalo Moscatel. The butcher was burlier and broader, and, in any case, he wasn’t the kind of man to resolve these things in person. Perhaps the fellow was a hired killer earning his daily bread, although he must be very good indeed, Alatriste thought, if, knowing, as he must, who he was waiting for, he had brought no one with him to help.
“Come no farther, sir,” said the stranger.
These words were spoken in a surprisingly educated and very polite voice, slightly muffled by the cloak.
“Says who?” asked Alatriste.
“Someone who can.”
This was not a good start. The captain smoothed his mustache and then lowered his hand so that it rested on the large brass buckle of his belt. There seemed little point in prolonging the conversation. The only question was whether or not the rogue was alone. He cast another quick glance to right and left. There was something very odd about all this.
“To business, then,” he said, unsheathing his sword.
The other man did not even push back his cloak. He stood very still with his back to the moonlight, looking at the captain’s bare glinting blade.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” he said.
He did not bother to call him “sir” this time. He was either someone who knew him well or was foolish enough to provoke him by this lack of respect.
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t suit me to do so.”
Alatriste raised his sword and leveled the tip at the other man’s face.
“Come on,” he said, “fight, damn you.”
Seeing the steel tip so near, the stranger retreated and folded back his cloak. His face was still concealed by the shadow cast by the brim of his hat, but Alatriste could now see what weapons he had on him. He had not one pistol at his waist, but two. And his jerkin appeared to be double in thickness. “He’s either a fully fledged ruffian or an exceptionally prudent gentleman,” Alatriste concluded. “He’s certainly no lamb to the slaughter. If he so much as touches the handle of one of those pistols, I’ll stick a foot of steel through his throat before he can say a word.”
“I’m not going to fight with you, my friend,” said the other man.
“He’s making it very easy for me,” thought the captain. “Now he’s addressing me as ‘friend.’ He’s giving me the perfect motive to skewer him, unless that familiar tone of voice has some justification and I know him well enough for him to poke his nose into my business and my nocturnal affairs and get away with it. Besides, it’s late. Let’s finish the business now.”
He settled his hat more firmly on his head and undid the clasp of his cloak, letting his cloak fall to the ground. Then he took a step forward, ready to attack, keeping a close eye on his opponent’s pistols and meanwhile reaching with his left hand for his dagger. Seeing Alatriste closing on him, the other man took another step back.
“For heaven’s sake, Alatriste,” he muttered. “Do you still not know who I am?”
The tone this time was angry, even arrogant, and now the captain thought he recognized that voice, unmuffled now by the cloak. He hesitated and withheld the sword-thrust he was aching to make.
“Is that you, Count?”
“The same.”
There was a long silence. It was Guadalmedina in person. Still keeping hold of sword and knife, Alatriste was trying to make sense of this new situation.
“And what the devil,” he said at last, “are you doing here?”
“Trying to prevent you from ruining your life.”
Another silence. Alatriste was thinking about what the count had just said. Quevedo’s warnings and various other clues all fitted perfectly. Christ’s blood! Given what a large place the world was, what bad luck to have met with such a rival. And as if that were not enough, there was Guadalmedina in the middle, as intermediary.
“My life is my business,” he retorted.
“And that of your friends?”
“Tell me why I can’t come any farther.”
“I can’t do that.”
Alatriste shook his head thoughtfully, then looked at his sword and his dagger. “We are what we are,” he thought. “My reputation is all, and I have no other.”
“I’m expected,” he said.
The count remained impassive. He was a skilled swordsman, as the captain knew all too well: steady on his feet and quick with his hand, and with that cold, scornful brand of courage favored by the Spanish nobility. Naturally, he wasn’t as good as the captain, but chance and darkness always left room for the unexpected. In addition to which, he had two pistols.
“Your place has been taken,” said Guadalmedina.
“I’d rather find that out for myself.”
“You’ll have to kill me first, or let me kill you.”
He had said this with no hint of boastfulness or menace, he was simply stating an inevitable fact
, like one friend confiding quietly in another. The count was also what he was, and had his and other people’s reputations to protect.
Alatriste replied in the same tone:
“Don’t make me do this.”
And he took a step forward. The count stayed where he was, his sword still in its sheath, but with the two pistols in his belt clearly visible. And he knew how to use them. Alatriste had seen him do so only a few months before, in Seville, to dispatch a constable without even giving him time to make his confession.
“She’s only a woman,” said Guadalmedina. “There are hundreds of women in Madrid.” His tone was friendly, reassuring. “Are you going to ruin your life for an actress?”
The captain took a while to reply.
“It doesn’t matter who she is,” he said at last. “That’s the least of it.”
The count gave a sad sigh, as if he had known what the captain’s answer would be. Then he took out his sword and adopted the en garde position, his left hand hovering near the handle of one of his pistols. Alatriste raised both his weapons, resigned to his fate, knowing as he did so that the ground was opening up at his feet.
When I saw the stranger unsheathe his sword—at that distance, I still did not know who he was, even though his face was now uncovered—I took a step forward, but Angélica grabbed me and forced me to remain hidden behind the pillar.
“It’s not our affair,” she whispered.
I looked at her as if she were mad.
“What are you talking about?” I exclaimed. “That’s Captain Alatriste.”
She didn’t appear in the least surprised. Her grip on my arm tightened.
“And do you want him to know that we’ve been spying on him?”
That gave me pause for thought. How could I explain to the captain what I was doing there at that hour of the night?