The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

fact, a sham), proved to be a mine more profitable even than those of Peru, although he always held in reserve—as the most exquisite of delicacies—that Aragonese beauty with chestnut hair and the sweetest of voices. In short, the clear-headed Cozar fitted, as few men else, this dictum by Lope:

The honor of the married man is a castle

In which the enemy is the castle’s keeper.

Let us, though, be as fair as the present story demands. The truth is that La Castro did sometimes have less venal ideas and tastes, and it was not always jewelry that made her lovely eyes shine. Men, as the saying goes, are there to be kissed, cozened, or cuckolded. As far as kissing goes, I will just say, dear reader, that Maria de Castro and Diego Alatriste were rather more than just friends—the captain’s ill humor and the quarrel with Caridad la Lebrijana were not unrelated to this fact—and that afternoon at the Corral de la Cruz, during the second act, the captain kept his eyes fixed on the actress, while I kept looking from him to her. I felt concerned for my master and sad for La Lebrijana, of whom I was very fond. Then again, I was also thrilled to the core to be there, reliving the impression La Castro had made on me three or four years earlier, on my first visit to the theater to see El Arenal de Sevilla, in the Corral del Principe, on that memorable day when everyone, including Charles, Prince of Wales and the then Duke of Buckingham, was embroiled in a fight in the presence of Philip IV himself. I may not have thought the lovely actress the most beautiful creature on earth—that title belonged to another woman known to you, dear reader, a woman with devilish blue eyes—but I was as stirred by her looks as every other man present. I could not have imagined then how Maria de Castro would complicate my master’s life, and mine, placing both of us in the gravest of dangers, us and the king, whose life, during that period, was quite literally on a knife-edge. All of this I propose to recount in this new adventure and thus prove that whenever a beautiful woman is involved, there is no madness into which a man will not fall, no abyss into which he will not peer, and no situation of which the devil will not take full advantage.

Between the second and third acts, the musketeers called for and were given a jacara entitled Dona Isabel the Thief. This was a famous ballad written in thieves’ slang and was, on this occasion, sung with great gusto by a mature, but still attractive, actress called Jacinta Rueda. I, however, could not give it my full attention, because the moment she started singing, a stagehand came up the steps, bearing a message for Senor Diego Alatriste, saying that he was expected in the dressing rooms. The captain and don Francisco de Quevedo exchanged looks, and when my master got to his feet, the poet shook his head disapprovingly and said:

Happy the man who dies on leaving ’em

Or succeeds in living without their love,

Or, better yet, gets to dig their grave.

The captain shrugged, picked up hat and cape, muttered a brusque “Stay out of my business, don Francisco,” donned his hat, and pushed his way past the other spectators on the bench. Quevedo gave me an eloquent look which I took to mean what it usually did, and so I left my seat to follow my master. “Let me know if there’s any trouble,” his eyes had said from behind his spectacles, “two swords are better than one.” Conscious of my responsibilities, I checked that the dagger I wore at my belt was in place and, discreet as a mouse, went after the captain, hoping that this time we might be able to watch the end of the play in peace. It would, after all, have been both a shame and an insult to spoil this first performance of Tirso’s play.

Diego Alatriste had been here before and knew the way. He walked down the steps from the benches, turned left opposite the passageway that housed the stall selling mead, and followed the corridor that led underneath the boxes to the stage and the actors’ dressing rooms. At the far end, his old comrade from Flanders, the lieutenant of constables, Martin Saldana, was standing on the steps, chatting with the owner of the Corral and a couple of acquaintances, who were also theater people. Alatriste stopped for a moment to greet them and immediately noticed the worried look on Saldana’s face. He was just taking his leave when Saldana called him back and, casually, as if suddenly recollecting some minor matter, placed his hand on his arm and whispered gravely:

“Gonzalo Moscatel is in there.”

“So?”

“Best let sleeping dogs lie.”

Alatriste’s expression remained entirely inscrutable, then he said:

“You can keep your nose out of my business too.”

And he stalked off, leaving his friend scratching his beard and doubtless wondering who else had poked his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. A little farther on, Alatriste drew aside a curtain and found himself in a windowless chamber used as a storeroom for the wood and the painted back-cloths needed for the stage machinery and any scene changes. On the other side were various curtained cubicles that served as the actresses’ dressing rooms, the men’s being on the floor below. The room itself, which, beyond yet another curtain, gave onto the stage, was used by members of the company waiting to go on, but also served as an area to receive admirers. At that moment, it was occupied by half a dozen men, amongst them actors costumed and ready to take the stage as soon as the ballad was over—Jacinta Rueda could be heard on the other side of the curtain, singing the famous line “Pursued by the law, by bailiffs beset”—as well as a few gentlemen who, by virtue of their social status or their wealth, had been given permission to meet the actresses. One of these men was don Gonzalo Moscatel.

I followed the captain into the room and politely greeted Martin Saldana as soon as I felt his eyes fix on me. The face of one of his companions on the landing seemed familiar, but I could not place it. In the corridor, where I stood, leaning against the wall, I saw my master and the gentlemen waiting inside exchange curt nods, but none of them doffed their hats. The only man not to respond to his greeting at all was don Gonzalo Moscatel, a picturesque character to whom I should perhaps introduce you. Senor Moscatel looked as if he had stepped straight out of a cloak-and-sword drama: he was big and burly, sported a ferocious mustache with extraordinarily long, upright tips, and was dressed with a mixture of elegance and bravado that managed to be simultaneously comic and alarming. He was got up like a fop, with a lace Walloon collar over his purple doublet, old-fashioned baggy breeches, a short French cape, silk stockings, black felt boots, and a leather belt studded with old silver reales and from which hung an extremely long sword; for he also fancied himself a bit of a ruffian, the kind who struts about uttering oaths—“Od’s blood,” “A pox on’t”—twirling his mustaches and clanking his sword. He claimed, furthermore, to be a poet, and made a great show of his friendship with Gongora, for which there was not the slightest basis in fact; he also perpetrated some infamous, verbose poems which, being a man of ample means, he was able to have printed at his own expense. Only one loathsome, fawning fellow poetaster had bothered to pay him court and extol the virtues of his verse. This same wretch, one Garciposadas, who penned stiff, dictionary-bound poetry—a pyre he builds her and constructs for her a wall, you know the kind of thing—wrote with a quill from the wing of the angel who visited Sodom and prospered by licking boots at court. He was, alas, burned in one of the very last autos-da-fe, condemned as a softling, that is, as one who had committed the nefarious sin. Don Gonzalo Moscatel had thus been left with no one to praise his muse to the skies until the softling’s place was taken by a slimy, pettifogging lawyer named Saturnino Apolo, an inveterate flatterer and emptier of other people’s purses, who shamelessly wheedled money out of Moscatel, and to whom we will also return later on. Otherwise, Moscatel had reached his position in society thanks to his role as chief supplier of meat, pork included, to the city’s butchers, and thanks also—a few personal bribes aside—to the dowry of his late wife, whose father had been a judge of the kind whose justice was not so much blind as one-eyed, and who preferred the scales of justice to be weighted down with a few doubloons. The widower Moscatel had no children of his own, only a young orphaned niece over whom he stood guard in his house in Calle de la Madera like Cerberus, the hound of Hades. He was also keen to become a member of some military order and was sure, sooner or later, to end up with a red cross emblazoned on his doublet. In this Spain full of crooked, rapacious functionaries, you could get anything you liked, so long as you had stolen enough money to pay for it.