Read Online The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet by Arturo Pérez-Reverte - Free Book Online
Authors: Arturo Pérez-Reverte
Tags: Fiction, Action & Adventure
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quiet passing of the old infantry whose long-drawn-out death I wit- nessed in Breda, Nördlingen, Fuenterrabía, Catalonia, and Rocroi—I find only the faces of ghosts and the lucid, infinite solitude of someone who has known the best and the worst of what that word “Spain” contains. And now, having myself paid the price demanded by life, I know what lay behind the captain’s silences and his abstracted gaze.
The captain bade good night to everyone and set off alone up Calle del Lobo before crossing Carrera de San Jerónimo, wrapped in his cloak and with his hat pulled well down. Night had fallen, it was cold, and Calle de los Peligros was deserted; the only light came from a candle burning in a niche in the wall containing the image of a saint. Halfway along, he felt the need to stop for a moment. “Too much wine,” he said to himself. He chose the darkest corner, drew back his cloak and unbuttoned his breeches. He was standing there in the corner, legs apart, relieving himself, when a bell tolled in the nearby convent of Bernardine nuns. He had plenty of time, he thought. It was half an hour until his rendezvous in a house farther up on the right, beyond Calle de Alcalá, where an old duenna, a seasoned bawd and matchmaker experienced in her profession, would have everything ready—bed, supper, washbowl, water, and towels—for his meeting with María de Castro.
He was buttoning up his breeches when he heard a noise behind him. This was, after all, Calle de los Peligros—the Street of Dangers—and there he was in the dark with his breeches unbuttoned. He really didn’t want to end his days like this. He rapidly adjusted his clothing, all the time glancing over his shoulder, then he folded back his cloak so that his sword was unencumbered. Moving around at night in Madrid meant living in a state of permanent anxiety; anyone who could afford it hired an armed escort to light their way. If, on the other hand, your name was Diego Alatriste, you had the consolation of knowing that you could be just as dangerous, if not more, than whoever you might bump into. It was all a matter of temperament, and his had never been, shall we say, Franciscan.
For the moment, he could see nothing. It was pitch-black night, and the eaves of the houses left the façades and the doorways in deep shadow. Here and there, a domestic candle lit up a blind from within or a half-open shutter door. He stood motionless for a while, watching the corner of Calle de Alcalá like someone studying the slope of a fortification being swept by the fire of enemy harquebuses, then he walked warily on, taking care not to step in the horse dung or other filth that lay stinking in the gutter. He could hear only his own footsteps. Suddenly, where Calle de los Peligros narrowed and the convent wall ended, that sound seemed to find an echo. Still walking, he kept looking to either side, until he noticed a shape to his right that was keeping close to the walls of some tall houses. It might be some perfectly innocent passerby, or someone following him with evil intent; and so he continued on his way, never losing sight of that shape. He walked some twenty or thirty paces, remaining always in the middle of the street, and when the shape passed a lighted window, he saw a man wrapped in a cloak and wearing a broad-brimmed hat. The captain walked on, every sense alert now, and shortly afterward spotted a second shape on the other side of the street. Too many shapes and too little light, he thought. These were either hired killers or robbers. He unclasped his cloak and unsheathed his sword.
Divide and conquer, he was thinking—if, that is, luck was with him. Besides, the early bird catches the worm. And so, wrapping his cloak around his free arm, he made straight for the shape on the right and dealt a blow with his sword before his adversary even had time to make a move. The man slumped to one side with a groan, his cloak and what lay behind it
The captain bade good night to everyone and set off alone up Calle del Lobo before crossing Carrera de San Jerónimo, wrapped in his cloak and with his hat pulled well down. Night had fallen, it was cold, and Calle de los Peligros was deserted; the only light came from a candle burning in a niche in the wall containing the image of a saint. Halfway along, he felt the need to stop for a moment. “Too much wine,” he said to himself. He chose the darkest corner, drew back his cloak and unbuttoned his breeches. He was standing there in the corner, legs apart, relieving himself, when a bell tolled in the nearby convent of Bernardine nuns. He had plenty of time, he thought. It was half an hour until his rendezvous in a house farther up on the right, beyond Calle de Alcalá, where an old duenna, a seasoned bawd and matchmaker experienced in her profession, would have everything ready—bed, supper, washbowl, water, and towels—for his meeting with María de Castro.
He was buttoning up his breeches when he heard a noise behind him. This was, after all, Calle de los Peligros—the Street of Dangers—and there he was in the dark with his breeches unbuttoned. He really didn’t want to end his days like this. He rapidly adjusted his clothing, all the time glancing over his shoulder, then he folded back his cloak so that his sword was unencumbered. Moving around at night in Madrid meant living in a state of permanent anxiety; anyone who could afford it hired an armed escort to light their way. If, on the other hand, your name was Diego Alatriste, you had the consolation of knowing that you could be just as dangerous, if not more, than whoever you might bump into. It was all a matter of temperament, and his had never been, shall we say, Franciscan.
For the moment, he could see nothing. It was pitch-black night, and the eaves of the houses left the façades and the doorways in deep shadow. Here and there, a domestic candle lit up a blind from within or a half-open shutter door. He stood motionless for a while, watching the corner of Calle de Alcalá like someone studying the slope of a fortification being swept by the fire of enemy harquebuses, then he walked warily on, taking care not to step in the horse dung or other filth that lay stinking in the gutter. He could hear only his own footsteps. Suddenly, where Calle de los Peligros narrowed and the convent wall ended, that sound seemed to find an echo. Still walking, he kept looking to either side, until he noticed a shape to his right that was keeping close to the walls of some tall houses. It might be some perfectly innocent passerby, or someone following him with evil intent; and so he continued on his way, never losing sight of that shape. He walked some twenty or thirty paces, remaining always in the middle of the street, and when the shape passed a lighted window, he saw a man wrapped in a cloak and wearing a broad-brimmed hat. The captain walked on, every sense alert now, and shortly afterward spotted a second shape on the other side of the street. Too many shapes and too little light, he thought. These were either hired killers or robbers. He unclasped his cloak and unsheathed his sword.
Divide and conquer, he was thinking—if, that is, luck was with him. Besides, the early bird catches the worm. And so, wrapping his cloak around his free arm, he made straight for the shape on the right and dealt a blow with his sword before his adversary even had time to make a move. The man slumped to one side with a groan, his cloak and what lay behind it
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