Just then, the innkeeper came over and whispered something to María de Castro. She nodded, stroked her husband’s hand, and stood up with a rustle of skirts.
“Good night,” she said.
“Shall I come with you?” asked Cózar distractedly.
“There’s no need. Some friends are expecting me, the queen’s ladies.”
She was looking at herself in a small mirror and touching up her rouge. At that hour, I thought, the only ladies who weren’t safe in bed were whores and the queens in a deck of cards. Don Francisco and I exchanged a meaningful glance, which Cózar caught. His face was an impassive mask.
“I’ll have them bring the coach around for you,” he said to his wife.
“There’s no need,” she said confidently. “My friends have sent theirs.”
Her husband nodded indifferently, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. He was bent over his wine and seemed entirely unmoved.
“May I know where you’ll be?”
She gave a charming smile and put away the mirror in her little silver mesh bag.
“Oh, somewhere or other. In La Fresneda, I think. But don’t sit up for me.”
With another smile and with great aplomb, she said good-bye, arranged her cloak to cover head and shoulders, gathered up her skirt, and departed, gently shaking her head at don Francisco, who had gallantly stood up in order to accompany her to the door. I noticed that her husband did not stir from his seat, but sat with doublet unfastened and mug in hand, staring into his wine with an absorbed expression on his face and a strange grimace of distaste beneath that long mustache of his. If that remarkable woman is leaving alone, I thought, while her drunkard husband stays here with don Pedro Ximénez and with that look on his face, she’s clearly not simply going off to say her prayers before bed. Don Francisco shot me a grave glance, eyebrows raised, which only confirmed me in my view. La Fresneda was a hunting lodge on the royal estate, just over half a league from El Escorial, at the far end of a long avenue of poplars. Neither the queen nor her ladies had ever been known to set foot there.
“It’s time we all went to bed,” said don Francisco.
Cózar still did not move, his eyes fixed on his mug of wine. The ironic, scoundrelly smirk had grown more marked.
“Why the rush?” he murmured.
He seemed quite different from the man whom I had previously only seen from afar; it was as if the wine were revealing shadowy corners that normally went unperceived in the glare of the stage lights. Then, abruptly raising his glass, he said:
“Let’s drink to young Philip’s health!”
I eyed him uneasily. Even famous actors had to watch what they said. In truth he was not the sparkling, witty character we had seen on stage, always with a sharp riposte on his lips and always in a buoyant mood, with that peculiarly mocking air about him, as if he were saying: “I’m enjoying myself, the worms can wait.” Don Francisco again looked at me, then poured himself some more wine and raised it to his lips. I was fidgeting in my seat, shooting him impatient glances. He, however, shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: “There’s not much we can do. Your master holds all the cards, but where is he? As for this other man, sometimes a few glasses of wine reveal things that sobriety keeps at bay.”
“How does that wonderful sonnet of yours go, Señor de Quevedo?” Cózar had placed one hand on don Francisco’s arm. “Something about a ruddy-faced silversmith pursuing the nymph Diana . . . Do you know the one I mean?”
Don Francisco observed him intently, as if trying to see what was going on behind the other man’s eyes. The light from the candles was reflected in the lenses of his spectacles.
“I can’t remember,” he said at last.
He was anxiously twirling his mustache. I concluded that he had not liked what he saw inside Cózar. Even I sensed in the actor’s tone of voice something I would never have imagined—a vague rancour, contained and dark—entirely opposed to the person Cózar was, or usually seemed to be.
“You don’t? Well, I do,” Cózar raised a finger. “Wait.”
And albeit rather hesitantly, he proceeded to recite with actorly skill, for he was a magnificent player possessed of an excellent voice:
“Grave Jupiter, or so we’re told,
Once lifted up a maiden’s skirts
And had her in a shower of gold.”
One didn’t have to be a literary expert to be able to decipher the symbols, and the poet and I exchanged another uncomfortable look. Cózar, on the other hand, seemed entirely unperturbed. He had once more raised his mug of wine to his lips and appeared to be chuckling to himself.
“And what about that other poem of yours?” he said, having taken two long gulps of wine. “Don’t you remember that one, either? Of course you do. ‘A cuckold, you are, sir, up to your brows.’ ”
Don Francisco was shifting uneasily in his seat, looking around like someone seeking an escape route.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really? Well, you wrote it, and it’s famous. In the gossip-shops they say it may be a reference to me.”
“Ridiculous. You’ve had too much to drink.”
“Of course, but I have a superb memory for poetry. Listen: