The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Page A

seemed to me then, and thinking how strange women were, capable of captivating a man and leading him to such extremes that he would risk money, honor, freedom, and life. There was I, no mere foolish boy, at dead of night, armed to the teeth like some lout from La Heria, exposed to all kinds of danger and not knowing what the devil the devil wanted of me, and all because a girl with blue eyes and fair hair had scribbled me two lines: If you are gentleman enough to escort a lady . . . Every woman knows how to look after herself. Even the most stupid woman can apply those skills, without even realizing that she is. No astute man of the law, no memorialist, no petitioner at court can better them when it comes to appealing to a man’s purse, vanity, chivalry, or stupidity. A woman’s weapons. Wise, experienced, lucid don Francisco de Quevedo filled pages and pages with words on the subject:
    You are very like the blade of a sword:
You kill more when bare than clothed.
    The angelus bell at the Convento de la Encarnación rang out, and this was immediately followed, like an echo, by the bell from San Agustín, whose tower could be seen among the dark rooftops, bright in the light of the half-moon. I crossed myself and, before the last chime had even faded away, heard the door to the passageway creak open. I held my breath. Then, very cautiously, I pushed back my cloak to free the hilt of my sword, just in case, and turning in the direction of the noise, glimpsed a lantern which, before it was withdrawn, lit up from behind a slender figure that slipped quickly out, shutting the door behind it. This confused me, because the figure I had seen was that of an agile young man, with no cloak, but dressed all in black and with the unmistakable glint of a dagger at his waist. This was not what I had expected, far from it. And so I did the only sensible thing I could at that hour of night and in that place: quick as a squirrel, I grabbed my dagger and pressed the point to the new arrival’s chest.
    “Another step,” I whispered, “and I’ll nail you to the door.”
    Then I heard Angélica de Alquézar laugh.

4. CALLE DE LOS PELIGROS
    “We’re getting close,” she said.
    We were walking along in the dark, guiding ourselves by the moonlight that filled the way ahead with the cutout shapes of rooftops and projected our own shadows onto the rough ground that ran with streams of grubby water and filth. We were speaking in whispers, and our footsteps echoed in the empty streets.
    “Close to what?” I asked.
    “Close.”
    We had left behind us the Convento de la Encarnación and were approaching the little Plaza de Santo Domingo, presided over by the sinister bulk of the monastery occupied by the monks of the Holy Office. There was no one to be seen near the old fountain, and the fruit and vegetable stalls were, of course, bare. A guttering lamp above an image of the Virgin lit up the corner of Calle de San Bernardo beyond.
    “Do you know the Tavern of the Dog?” asked Angélica.
    I stopped and, after a few steps, so did she. By the light of the moon, I could see her man’s costume, the tight doublet concealing all feminine curves, her fair hair caught up beneath a felt cap, the metallic glint of the dagger at her waist.
    “Why have you stopped?” she asked.
    “I never imagined I would hear the name of that inn on your lips.”
    “There are, I’m afraid, far too many things you have never imagined. But don’t worry, I won’t ask you to go in.”
    This reassured me somewhat, but not much. The Tavern of the Dog was a place even I would tremble to enter, for it was a meeting place for whores, ruffians, louts, and other passing trade. The quarter itself, Santo Domingo and San Bernardo, was a perfectly reputable area, inhabited by respectable people; however, the narrow alleyway where the inn was to be found—between Calle de Tudescos and Calle de Silva—was a kind of pustule that none of the neighbors’ protests could