“Did you indeed?” said Beauvallet sarcastically. For the life of him he could not control that disdainful curl of the lip. “What I have missed!”
“Yes, I fear we shall see no more such sights yet awhile,” said Don Diego regretfully. His wandering gaze came back to Beauvallet. “I regret I was not at de Losa’s house last night, where I was told I might have had the felicity of meeting you.” He bowed again.
“My loss, señor,” said Sir Nicholas. “I looked for Don Manuel de Rada, known to me through hearsay, and—alas!—heard the sad news of his death.”
“Alas indeed,” Don Diego answered. But it did not seem to Beauvallet that this sentiment came from the heart.
“I shall do myself the honour of waiting upon your father, señor,” said Beauvallet.
“My father will count himself honoured, señor. Do you stay long in Madrid?”
“Some few weeks, perhaps. No more, I believe. But I detain you.” He stepped back, doffed his cap again, and bowed. “I shall hope to see more of you, señor.”
“The pleasure will be mine, señor,” returned Don Diego.
On that they parted. Later in the day Sir Nicholas sought out his sponsor, Don Diaz de Losa, and had no difficulty in getting from him a letter of introduction to Don Rodriguez de Carvalho.
“All goes merrily,” he said to himself, as he walked back to the Rising Sun. “Enough for one day, I think. Patience, Nick!”
Upon the morrow he made his way to the Casa Carvalho, and was fortunate enough to find Don Rodriguez at home. If he had hoped to see Dominica he was disappointed. No glimpse of her could be obtained, though he sharply scrutinised the windows that gave on to the patio as he crossed it behind the lackey.
He was ushered into a dusky library that looked out on to the walled garden Joshua had discovered. Volumes in tooled leather lined the room; there were several chairs of walnut, tortuously carved, a Catalan chest, with flat pilasters upon its front and sides, and an escabeau over against the window.
Don Rodriguez came in presently with de Losa’s letter open in his hand. He was a lean man of middle age, with eyes rather too close-set to be trusted, Beauvallet thought. They shifted here and there, never resting for long on any one object. His mouth bore some resemblance to his son’s, but there was weakness in the lines about it, and a kind of petulant uncertainty in the slightly pouting underlip.
He received the Chevalier kindly, and said a great deal that was proper on the sad subject of his brother-in-law’s death. His sighs were gusty, he shook his head, cast down his eyes to the floor, and meandered on in his talk of the exigencies of the West Indian climate.
Beauvallet was becoming impatient of this tedious exchange of futilities when they were interrupted by a sound on the gravel walk outside. The long window was darkened, and there was the gentle hush of a lady’s skirts.
Sir Nicholas turned quickly, but the lady who stood looking in was not Dominica. She was a large woman, built on flowing lines, and dressed very richly in an embroidered gown of purple mochado. Her hair was extravagantly coiffed, her farthingale brushed the window-frame on either side as she came through, and her ruff stood up high behind her head. She was certainly handsome, and must have been lovely before increasing years made her stout. Her mouth was faintly smiling, and her eyes, almond-shaped under weary eyelids, smiled too. The hinted smile betokened a sort of compassionate amusement, as though the lady looked cynically upon her world, and found it foolish. She moved as one who would never hurry, and in spite of her ungainly farthingale she walked with a certain lazy grace.
“Ah, Chevalier! My wife—Doña Beatrice,” Don Rodriguez said. He addressed the lady with a hint of fluster in his voice as though he stood in lively awe of her. “My love, permit me to present to you a noble stranger to Madrid—M. le Chevalier de Guise.”
The disillusioned eyes ran over Sir Nicholas; the smile seemed to deepen. Doña Beatrice held out a passive hand, and appeared to approve Beauvallet as he bent over it. Her voice was as languid as her carriage. “A Frenchman,” she remarked. “I had ever a kindness for a Frenchman. Now, what do you make here, Chevalier?”
“Nothing but my pleasure, señora.”
It seemed an effort to her to raise her brows. “Do you find pleasure in Madrid?” she inquired. She went to a chair and sank into it, and began slowly to fan herself. “I find it unbearably fatiguing.”
“Why, señora, I find much pleasure here,” Beauvallet answered.
“You are young,” she said, in extenuation. “And French. So much vigour! So much enthusiasm!”
“Plenty of food for enthusiasm in Madrid, madam,” said Sir Nicholas politely.
“Ah! But when you attain to my years, señor, you will realize that there is nothing in the world to feed enthusiasm.”
“I shall hope to preserve my illusions, madame.”
“It is far better to have none,” drawled the lady.
Don Rodriguez, hovering solicitously about his spouse, smiled deprecatingly. He found himself in constant need to temper her oddities by this fidgetty, excusing smile.
“Let us talk in your own tongue, Chevalier. I speak it very indifferently, but it is a polite language.” She spoke it very well.
“My love, the Chevalier had hoped to find your poor brother. We have been speaking of his sad death.”
She answered without
