“I thought you were a bright, bold lad, Señor 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 Angélica 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. 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 welclass="underline" 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.