“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. Angelica 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. Angelica 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 involved 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, Senor 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 Angelica 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.
