The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

his part, he explained. He sincerely loved Laura Moscatel, for that was the young woman’s name, and he was prepared to marry her as soon as he was given the post of ensign he was seeking. The problem was that, as a professional soldier and the son of a playwright—Lope de Vega may have been ordained as a priest, but his reputation as a rake placed the morality of the whole family in jeopardy—his chances of obtaining don Gonzalo’s permission were remote indeed.
    “And have you tried every possible argument?”
    “I have, but without success. He refuses point-blank.”
    “And what if you were to stick a foot of steel through that turd of a suitor, that “Apollo”?” asked Quevedo.
    “It would change nothing. Moscatel would simply engage her to another.”
    Don Francisco adjusted his spectacles in order to study the young woman in the carriage more closely, then he said to the lovelorn gallant:
    “Do you really wish to win her hand?”
    “On my life, I do,” replied the young man earnestly, “but when I went to Señor Moscatel to speak honestly and seriously with him, I was met by a couple of ruffians he had hired to frighten me off.”
    Captain Alatriste turned to listen, suddenly interested. This, to him, was familiar music. Quevedo arched his eyebrows in curiosity. He, too, knew a fair bit about wooings and sword fights.
    “And how did you get on?” he asked.
    “Quite well, really. Being a soldier and a swordsman has its uses. Besides, they weren’t up to much, the ruffians. I drew my sword, which they weren’t expecting; luck was on my side, and they both took to their heels. Don Gonzalo still refused to receive me, though. And when I returned that night to her window, accompanied this time by a servant who, as well as a guitar, was armed with a sword and a shield so that we would be equally matched, we found that there were now four ruffians.”
    “A prudent man, the butcher.”
    “He certainly is, and he has a large purse to pay for his prudence. They nearly sliced off my poor servant’s nose, and after a few skirmishes, we decided to make ourselves scarce.”
    All four of us were now looking at Moscatel, who was most put out by our stares and by seeing in good company the two men who, from very different angles, were both hammering at his walls. He smoothed the fierce points of his mustache and paced back and forth a little, grasping the hilt of his sword as if he could barely keep himself from coming over and cutting us to pieces. In the end, he furiously fastened the curtain at the carriage window, thus hiding his niece from view, then gave orders to the coachman as he himself got into the carriage, drew up the running board, and drove off up the avenue, cutting a broad swathe through the crowds.
    “He’s a real dog in the manger,” said Lopito sadly. “He doesn’t want to eat, but he doesn’t want anyone else to eat either.”
     
     
     
     
    Were all love affairs so difficult? I was pondering this question that very night, while I waited, leaning against the wall of the Puerta de la Priora, staring into the darkness that extended beyond the bridge toward the Camino de Aravaca and into the trees in the neighboring gardens. The nearness of Leganitos Stream and the river Manzanares had a cooling effect. I had my cloak wrapped about me—concealing the dagger tucked in my belt at the back and the short sword at my waist—but that wasn’t enough to keep me warm. I preferred, however, not to move in case I caught the eye of some marauding group, whether curious or criminal, trying to scrape a living in that solitary place. And so there I stayed, like part of the shadow cast by the wall, alongside the door of the passageway that connected the Convento de la Encarnación, the Plaza de la Priora, and the riding school, linking the north wing of the Alcázar Real to the outskirts of the city. Waiting.
    I was, as I said, pondering the problematic nature of love affairs, all love affairs it