“So that means when the dog comes back now, Duke de Leon will win the estate in Extremadura, and everyone in his party will win the things they bet on with those from Molina’s party?” Dr. Monardes asked.
“That’s the way it turns out,” replied Dr. Bernard.
Dr. Monardes once again shot me a withering, scathing glance, but merely said, “Gee.”
But how could I have known? Oh, if I’d only known. .
“Of course, someone informed Don Felipe about the gathering at Duke de Leon’s, so he knew about it that very same evening, even before receiving a letter with the same information from First Minister de Leca. Incidentally, Duke de Molina’s party had not organized the fiendish plot which Duke de Leon had suspected them of. Molina’s people hadn’t gotten together at all to discuss what had happened. But in any case, there was clearly a problem, and it could, at least potentially, grow to absurd proportions. For this reason, Don Felipe decided to take action and called me in. He also had another reason for trying to find the dog. I, of course, am telling you this, señores, in the strictest confidence, as fellow physicians, and also because its consequences will soon become known to all.”
“Of course, señor, you can count on us,” Dr. Monardes assured him. “Nothing will leave this company.”
“I’m silent as the grave, señor,” I, too, hastened to assure Dr. Bernard.
“Very well,” he replied. “The point is, señores, that Margaret of Austria wants to somehow acquire our territories in the Low Countries, or at least the part of them that remained at our disposal after the Dutch Revolt. This would be very difficult to arrange if she hadn’t found unexpected support at our court in the person of Señor de Leca himself — whose support, of course, she could hardly have any inkling of. Señor de Leca thinks we must give up the Low Countries because — put in his own pragmatic terms, señores — we have already stolen everything valuable there. Since our troops have plundered Antwerp, Brussels, and other cities, we no longer have anything to gain from those territories, yet we continue to waste lots of money on wars with those crazy Dutchmen, which have dragged on for so many years now. Señor de Leca has calculated that it will take at least twenty to thirty years — and years of peace and benevolence on the part of nature, at that — for the Low Countries to be rehabilitated after our operations there, before they will really begin to turn a profit as they did back in the days before the Dutch rebelled. For this reason he figures it would be good to transfer our possessions there to the Austrians, let them rehabilitate the place. Besides, until now they’ve only watched from the sidelines, even though they’re our allies; let them rebuild the Low Countries now, that’s what he says. And then, he says, we’ll see. But that will take so much time that it will surely be the job of the next king, so let him decide what to do, if the Austrians even succeed at rebuilding those countries in the first place. As a rule, Señor de Leca thinks we should give up everything unnecessary in Europe that only creates trouble for us—‘little lands, lots of expenses’ is what he says — and focus all of our efforts and resources on the New World, which is a true source of inexhaustible wealth, still pristine and unmatched by anything here, in his opinion. Don Felipe, however, is not totally in agreement and doesn’t feel like giving up the Low Countries. He was kind enough to confide in me that he has long since wondered what to do, and since it is very hard for him to make a decision, he has decided to leave everything in God’s hands, and if I find Berganza, he will give the Low Countries to Margaret of Austria, and if not, that means it is God’s will and he won’t give them up, despite all of Duke de Leca’s arguments.”
“So that means that when Berganza returns now, Margaret of Austria will acquire the Low Countries?” Dr. Monardes asked.
“That’s the way it is,” replied Dr. Bernard.
This time Dr. Monardes did not look at me. Instead he looked up, towards the sky.
“What would happen,” I thought to myself, “if right now, at this very moment, somebody killed Dr. Bernard? Jesús, for example.” But I quickly dismissed this thought.
And rightly so:
“Several of Duke de Leon’s commodores are waiting for me outside the door to your wonderful garden,” he said, glancing around approvingly, “and when we put Berganza in my carriage, Margaret of Austria can consider the Low Countries her own. Of course, she will find this out only a month or so from now, when the letters reach her. Unless Don Felipe reverses his decision. But I’ve known him for many years, and as of yet he has never reversed a decision after saying that he has left it in God’s hands.”
“Most commendable.” Dr. Monardes nodded, lit a cigarella, and cleared his throat. I lit a cigarella as well. Then Dr. Bernard did, too.
“To tell you the truth, señores,” he continued, “when Don Felipe entrusted me with this task, almost no one believed that we would be able to find Berganza. And it truly would have been difficult, had I not received the unconditional support of Duke de Leon’s party, which, by the way, includes several noblemen from your Andalusia. I doubt we would have succeeded had the good duke’s supporters not roused their subjects to action and organized scouts in various places and so on. You can’t imagine how many places they are searching for Berganza now. They are looking for him from Cadiz to Santander.”
“Oh, I can imagine it very well,” Dr. Monardes replied and exhaled a powerful stream of smoke. “But what happens to Duke de Molina’s people?”
“Nothing,” Dr. Bernard shook his head, smiling. “Nothing happens to them.” He took a gold chain out of his inside pocket, hooked it to the dozing Berganza’s collar, gave him a friendly pat, and said: “Come on, Berganza, come on, my friend. It’s time for us to go.”
Berganza got up clumsily, yawning with his enormous mouth. At that same moment, we heard stomping along the path, the clang of iron or some such thing, accompanied by — so it seemed to me, at least — the vague, yet worrisome sense of a human presence, and soon we saw several commodores, five in all, with Jesús, who was white as a sheet, leading them. “Leading” is not exactly the right word — one of the commodores, a very tall man, who looked even bigger thanks to the armor covering his entire body, had grabbed him by the back of the collar such that Jesús was not so much walking as mincing along ahead of him on his tiptoes. They had surely forced him to bring them to us. Without going into unnecessary detail, let me just say that the commodores looked very, very impressive with their shining armor covering them from head to toe and with halberds in their hands. A large L for Duke de Leon was engraved on the left side of their breastplates.