"At your service," I said, controlling my voice with great effort.
I vow I do not know how, as young as Angelica de Alquezar was at the time, she—or anyone else—could learn to smile the way she smiled that morning in front of the House of Seven Chimneys. All I know is that she did. A slow smile, very slow, conveying both disdain and infinite wisdom. One of those smiles that no young girl has had time to learn in her brief life but that is born of the lucidity and penetrating gaze that is a female's exclusive territory, the fruit of centuries and centuries of silently observing men commit every manner of stupidity. I was too young to have learned how foolish we males can be, or how much can be learned from a woman's eyes and smile. No few misadventures in my adult life would have had a happier outcome had I devoted more time to that lesson. But no one is born wise, and often, just when a man is beginning to profit from such teachings, it is too late to benefit either health or fortunes.
The fact is that the girl with the blond curls and eyes like the cold, clear skies of a Madrid winter smiled when she recognized me; she even leaned slightly toward me, accompanied by the sound of rustling silk, and placed a small, delicate white hand on the window frame. I was right by the footboard of my lady's coach, and the euphoria of the morning and the atmosphere of chivalry surrounding us spurred my audacity. My self-confidence was reinforced by the fact that I had dressed that day with a certain decorum, thanks to a dark brown doublet and a pair of old hose that had belonged to Captain Alatriste but looked like new after I had fitted them to my size with Caridad la Lebrijana's needle and thread.
"Today there is no mud in the street," she said, and her voice shook me from my toes to the tip of my noggin. She spoke in a quiet, seductive tone; there was nothing childlike about it. Almost too serious for her age. Some ladies used that tone when addressing their gallants in the shows that strolling players presented in the plazas, and in the comedies in the theaters. But Angelica de Alquezar— whose name I did not yet know—was a young girl, not an actress. No one had taught her to feign that low throb in her voice, to enunciate her words in a way that made me feel like a grown man, and more . . . the only man for a thousand leagues around.
"No, there is no mud," I repeated, unaware of what I was saying. "And I regret that, for it prevents me from being of service again."
With those last words I placed my hand over my heart. You may conclude that I behaved rather well, and that the gallant reply and gesture were worthy of the lady and the circumstances. And it must have been so, because instead of turning away, she smiled again. And I was the happiest, the most gallant, the most hidalgo lad in the world.
"This is the page I spoke of," she said then, turning to someone beside her in the coach, whom I could not see. "His name is Inigo, and he lives on Calle Arcabuz." Once more she turned toward me. I was staring at her open-mouthed, stunned that she had remembered my name. "With some captain, is that not true? A Captain Batiste, was it? Or Eltriste?"
There was a movement inside the coach, and first a hand with dirty fingernails, then a black-clad arm emerged from the dark carriage to rest on the window frame. They were followed by a cloak—that, too, black—and a doublet bearing the red insignia of the Order of Calatrava. And finally, above a narrow, badly starched ruff, appeared the face of a man in his late forties or early fifties. His head was round, the sparse hair coarse, the mustache and goatee dull and gray. Everything about him, despite his solemn garb, seemed somehow vulgar: common, unpleasant features, thick neck, ruddy nose, filthy hands, the way he held his head to one side, and especially the arrogant and crafty expression that suggested the past of a laborer fallen on good times, a man puffed up with influence and power.
In all, I had an uneasy feeling when I considered that this uncouth man shared a coach, and perhaps family ties, with the blonde and very young lady who had me enslaved. But the most disturbing thing about him was the strange brilliance of his eyes, and the hatred and choler I saw in them when the girl spoke the name of Captain Alatriste.
VII. THE PRADO RUA
The next day was Sunday. It began in celebration but soon went downhill for Diego Alatriste and me, finally ending in tragedy. But let us not get ahead of ourselves.
The festivities centered around the rua—the rue, the street, the via—which, in expectation of their official presentation at court and to the infanta, King Philip the Fourth ordered in honor of his illustrious guests. In those days, hacer la rua—doing the rua—was what the traditional paseo was called. All Madrid participated, on foot, on horseback, or in a carriage, whether along Calle Mayor, between Santa Maria de la Almudena and the steps of San Felipe and the Puerta del Sol, or whether continuing down to the gardens of the Duque de Lerma, the monastery of Saint Jerome—the Hieronymites—and the meadowland park, El Prado. Calle Mayor was the obligatory part of the rua,
from the center of the town to the Royal Palace, and it was also the location of silversmiths, jewelers, and elegant shops, which was why at dusk it was crowded with ladies' carriages and caballeros posturing before them. As for the prado of Saint Jerome, pleasant on sunny winter days and summer evenings, it was a green and leafy park with twenty-three fountains, many walled gardens, and a poplar-lined promenade where dignitaries in carriages and people strolling paused to exchange pleasantries. It was also a place for social meetings and trysts, perfect for furtive encounters, as well as the place where illustrious members of the court took their leisure. The one who best summed up the phenomenon of hacer la rua was Don Pedro Calderon de la Barca, several years later in one of his plays.
In early morning you will find me At the church you often come to; And as dusk falls, at the rua, Pray, may we rendezvous? That night I shall drive through The Prado, in the dark of my coach; Then go on foot, in the dark of my cloak. In this manner, I shall learn whether With coach, mass, Prado, and my Many hours on Calle Mayor I have proven it is you I adore.
Nowhere, then, more suitable for our monarch, the fourth Philip—a romantic, as was proper for his young years—to propose as the site of the first official meeting between his sister, the infanta, and her gallant English suitor. Everything, naturally, was to occur within the limits of the decorum and protocol demanded by the Spanish court; rules so stringent that it was established long in advance what the royal family were to do every day and every hour of their lives. It is therefore not surprising that the unexpected visit of the illustrious aspiring brother-in-law-to-be should be seized upon by the monarch as a pretext for breaking from rigid royal etiquette to improvise parties and outings. Metaphorical shoulders were set to the wheel, and a paseo of carriages organized in which everyone who was anyone at court participated; the people were thereby witness to the kind of palace pomp that gratified their national pride, ceremonies the English undoubtedly found singular and astonishing.
Of course, when the future Charles the First inquired about the possibility of greeting his betrothed in person, exchanging even so much as a simple "Good evening," the Conde de Olivares and the other Spanish counselors looked gravely at one another before communicating to His Highness, with much diplomatic and political circumlocution, that he was reaching for a star. It was unthinkable that anyone, even a Prince of Wales, who had yet to be officially presented, should speak or approach the Infanta dona Maria, or any other lady of the royal family. With great discretion, they would see each other in passing, and be grateful for that.