The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet Read Free

transformed into a look of wary respect when the captain appeared. Don Francisco shrugged and indicated to the captain his now occupied place on the bench, and my master fixed the intruder with his cold green eyes. The man was a wealthy artisan (as I found out later, he held the lease on the ice wells in Calle de Fuencarral), and the sword hanging from his leather belt looked about as much in keeping with him as a harquebus would on a Christ. He took in at one glance the captain’s ice-cold eyes, his veteran’s bushy mustache, the guard on his sword all dented and scuffed, and the long, narrow dagger, the hilt of which was just visible at his hip. Without saying a word, as silent as a clam, he gulped hard and, on the pretext of leaning over to buy a glass of mead from a passing vendor, shuffled farther up the bench, robbing his neighbor on the other side of some of his space, but freeing up my master’s place entirely.
    “I thought you weren’t coming,” commented don Francisco.
    “I met with a slight setback,” replied the captain, shifting his sword slightly to one side so that he could sit more comfortably.
    He smelled of sweat and metal, as in times of war. Don Francisco noticed the stain on the sleeve of his doublet.
    “Is that your blood?” he asked, concerned, arching his eyebrows behind his spectacles.
    “No.”
    The poet nodded gravely, looked away, and made no further comment. As he himself once said: Friendship is composed of shared rounds of wine, a few sword fights fought shoulder to shoulder, and many timely silences. I, too, was looking at my master with some concern, but he shot me a reassuring look and a faint distracted smile.
    “Everything in order, Íñigo?”
    “Yes, Captain.”
    “How was the farce before the interlude?”
    “Oh, excellent. It was called The Coachman Cometh , by Quiñones de Benavente. We laughed so much we cried.”
    Then all talk stopped, for at that point the guitars ceased playing. The musketeers at the back of the yard hissed furiously and cursed impatiently, demanding silence in their usual ill-mannered way. There was a furious fluttering of fans in the ladies’ sections up above and below; women ceased signaling to men and vice versa; the sellers of limes and mead withdrew with their baskets and demijohns; and, behind the shutters on the balconies, the people of quality returned to their places. On one such balcony, I spotted the Count of Guadalmedina—who paid the vast sum of two thousand reales a year to ensure a good seat at all the new plays—along with a few gentlemen friends and some ladies. At another window sat don Gaspar de Guzmán, Count-Duke of Olivares, accompanied by his family. Our king was not, alas, there, even though this fourth Philip of ours was very fond of the theater and often attended, either openly or incognito. On this occasion, however, he was still tired from his recent exhausting journey to Aragon and Catalonia, during which don Francisco de Quevedo—whose star was still in the ascendant at court—had formed part of the entourage, as he had in Andalusia. The poet could doubtless have had a seat as a guest on one of those upper balconies, but he was a man who liked to mingle with the populace, preferring the lively atmosphere in the lower sections of the Corral, and, besides, there he could enjoy the company of his good friend Diego Alatriste. For while Alatriste may have been a soldier, swordsman, and a man of few words, he was also reasonably well educated, having read good books and seen a great deal of theater; and although he never gave himself airs and mostly kept his opinions to himself, he nevertheless had a sharp eye for a good play and was never taken in by the easy effects with which some playwrights larded their work in order to win the favor of the ordinary people. This was not the case with such great writers as Lope, Tirso, or Calderón; and even when they did resort to the tricks of the trade, their inventive skill