We kept our eyes on the boxes, hoping to discover our young monarch there, or the queen, but we did not recognize any of the aristocratic faces that occasionally peered from between the lattices. The person we did see, however, was Lope himself, whom the public loudly applauded. We also glimpsed the Conde de Guadalmedina, accompanied by some friends and ladies, and Alvaro de la Marca, who responded with a courteous smile as Captain Alatriste touched the brim of his hat in greeting.
Some friends offered Don Francisco de Quevedo a place on a bench, and he excused himself and went to join them. Juan Vicuna and Licenciado Calzas were some distance away, discussing the work we were going to see, which Calzas had enjoyed years before at its first performance. As for Diego Alatriste, he was with me, having made a place for me on the barrier separating us from the open yard, so I could see without obstacle. He had bought fried bread with cinnamon and honey that I was crunching with delight, and had a hand on my shoulder to prevent me from being jostled off my place on the barrier. Suddenly I felt his grip tighten, and he slowly withdrew his hand and rested it on the pommel of his sword.
I followed the direction of his eyes, which had turned steely gray, and among the crowd made out the two men who had been lounging about on the steps of San Felipe the day before. They were standing in the pack of mosqueteros and I thought I saw them exchange some kind of sign with two other men who had taken up positions not too far away. The hats tilted to one side, the folded capes, the long curled mustaches and beards, a scar or two, and their way of cutting their eyes from side to side and standing with their legs planted firmly apart were sure signs of men acquainted with a knife. The corral was filled with such men, it is true, but those four seemed singularly interested in us.
I heard the thumps that signaled the start of the comedia, the mosqueteros shouted "Sombreros!" and then all doffed their hats. The curtain was drawn, and my attention flew like metal to magnet from the ruffians to the stage, where the characters of dona Laura and Urbana, both wearing cloaks, were entering. In front of the backdrop, a small pasteboard construction represented the Torre del Oro.
"Famous is El Arenal."
“I must say I find you light."
"In my view, there cannot be In all the world a finer sight."
I still get a thrill when I remember those lines, the first I ever heard on the stage of a corral, and I remember even more clearly because the actress who played dona Laura was the very beautiful Maria de Castro, who was later to fill a certain space in the lives of Captain Alatriste and me. But that day in El Principe, she was the beautiful Laura, who accompanies her uncle Urbana to the port of Seville, where the galleys are about to set sail, and where, by chance, she meets Don Lope, and Toledo, his servant.
"I must make haste, my ship sails
Just following the ebb. Ah, what victory it is to flee
A scheming woman's web!"
Everything around me vanished; I was completely absorbed in the words coming from the mouths of the actors. Within minutes I was transported to El Arenal, madly in love with Laura, and wishing I had the gallantry of Captains Fajardo and Castellanos, and that I were the one crossing swords with the bailiffs and catchpoles before sailing off in the king's Armada, saying, as Don Lope does,
"I had to call upon my sword.
To honor an hidalgo who
Insults me, I must draw my sword;
A point of honor, it is true,
A code we have both lived since birth.
To refuse to duel a man who vents
His anger against you, even
A lunatic, if he gives offense,
Is not to give a man his worth."
It was at that moment that one of the spectators standing beside us turned toward the captain and hissed at him to be quiet, although he had not said a word. I turned, surprised, and saw that the captain was staring intently at the man who had hushed him, a rough-looking individual whose cape was folded four times over one shoulder and whose hand was on the grip of his sword.
The play continued, and I was again drawn into it. Although Diego Alatriste was neither talking nor moving, the man with the folded cape again hissed at him, muttering in a low voice about people who had no respect for the theater or for letting other people hear. I felt the captain's hand, which was again resting on my shoulder, softly push me to one side, and I noticed that he pulled back his cape a little, to uncover the handle of the dagger in a sheath at his left side. At that instant, the first act ended, the public burst into applause, and the captain and our neighbor bored holes into each other with their eyes, though for the moment things went no further. There was one ruffian on either side, and, a short distance away, the other four, who kept us firmly in their view.
During the dance performed in the entr'acte, the captain caught the eye of Vicuna and Calzas and put me in their care, using the pretext that I could see the second Jornada better from where they were watching. There was a sudden burst of deafening applause, and we all turned toward one of the upper boxes, where people had recognized our lord and king, who had quietly entered at the beginning of the previous act. For the first time, I saw his pale features, the blond wavy hair that fell over his brow and temples, and the mouth with the prominent lower lip so characteristic of the Hapsburgs, still bare of the straight beard he would later adopt. Our monarch was dressed in black velvet, with a starched ruff and discreet silver buttons—faithful to the decree of austerity at court that he himself had just issued—and in his slender hand, so pale the blue veins showed through the skin, he casually held a chamois glove, which he occasionally put to his mouth to hide a smile or words directed to his companions.
Among these the enthusiastic public had recognized, besides several Spanish gentlemen, the Prince of Wales and Buckingham, whom His Majesty—though maintaining official incognito—had thought it well to invite; all wore their hats, as if the king were not present. The grave sobriety of the Spaniards contrasted with the plumes, ribbons, bows, and jewels of the two Englishmen, whose bearing and youth were greatly celebrated by the public, and the source of no few compliments, fluttering of fans, and devastating glances from the women's cazuela.
The second act began. As during the first, I sat drinking in the actors' every word and gesture. Yet just as Captain Fajardo was saying,
" 'Cousin' he calls her. I do not know