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 Angelica 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?
“If you leave, you’ll be betraying me,” added Angelica. “Your friend Batiste is quite capable of resolving his own affairs.”
“What’s going on,” I asked myself, bewildered. “What’s happening here, and what have I and the captain to do with it all? What has she got to do with it?”
“Besides, you can’t leave me here alone,” she said.
My mind fogged. She was still clinging to my arm, so close that I could feel her breath on my face. I felt ashamed not to go to my master’s aid, but if I abandoned Angelica, or betrayed her presence there, I would feel another kind of shame. A wave of heat rushed to my face. I rested my forehead on the cold stone while, with my eyes, I devoured the scene being played out in the street. I was thinking about the pistols I had seen tucked in the belt of the man when he left the Tavern of the Dog, and that worried me greatly. Even the best blade in the world was helpless against a bullet fired from four feet away.
“I have to leave you,” I said to Angelica.
“Don’t even consider it.”
Her tone had changed from plea to warning, but my thoughts were fixed now on what was going on there right before my eyes. After a pause during which both men, sword in hand, stared at each other without moving, my master finally took a step forward and they touched blades. At that point, I wrested myself from Angelica’s grasp, unsheathed my sword, and went to the captain’s aid.
Diego Alatriste heard footsteps running toward him and thought to himself that Guadalmedina was not, after all, alone, and that, what with the pistol the latter was now holding in his hand, things were clearly about to get very nasty indeed. “I’d better look sharp,” he decided, “or I’ll be done for.” His opponent was defending himself with his sword and moving steadily backward, waiting for a chance to cock and fire the pistol he was holding in his other hand. Fortunately for Alatriste, this operation required two hands, and so he dealt a high slicing thrust to keep the count’s right hand busy, while he considered the best way to wound and, if possible, not to kill. Those other footsteps were coming nearer; his next move would require great skill, for his life depended on it. He made a stabbing movement with his dagger, then pretended to step back, thus apparently giving Guadalmedina the space he needed; and just when the latter thought he had time to cock his pistol and lowered his sword hand in order to grip the barrel, the captain lunged at that arm, causing the pistol to fall to the ground and the count to go reeling backward, cursing. “I think I hit flesh,” thought Alatriste; then again, the count was cursing rather than moaning, although in men of their kind, cursing and moaning were one and the same. Meanwhile, there was the third party in the dispute to deal with, a shadow running forward, a flash of steel in its hand; and Alatriste realized that Guadalmedina, who had another pistol in his belt, still posed a mortal danger. “I must finish it,” he decided, “now.” The count had also heard the approaching footsteps, yet he looked bewildered rather than cheered. He glanced behind him, losing precious time, and before he could compose himself, Alatriste—taking advantage of that moment, and still conscious of the other man running toward him—calculated the distance with expert eye, made a low feint toward Guadalmedina’s groin, and when the count, caught off guard, desperately parried, he raised his sword again, ready to lunge forward either to wound or to kill, he no longer cared.
