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

burst.
    “Do you know the inn or don’t you?”
    I said that I did, but avoided going into further detail. I had been there once with Captain Alatriste and don Francisco de Quevedo when the poet was in search of inspiration and looking for fresh material for his lighter verse. “The Dog” was the illustrative nickname given to the owner of the tavern, who sold hippocras, an infamous and extremely expensive cordial whose consumption was forbidden by various decrees, because, in order to make the drink more cheaply, its manufacturers routinely adulterated it with alum stone, waste matter, and other substances harmful to the health. Despite this, it continued to be drunk clandestinely, and since any prohibition brings wealth to those tradesman who flouts it, the Dog sold his particular brand of rat poison at twenty-five maravedís for half a quart—which was very good business indeed.
    “Is there a place where we could keep watch on the tavern?”
    I tried to remember. It was a short, gloomy street which at various points—by a crumbling wall, say, or around some hidden corner—would be pitch-black at night. The only problem, I explained, was that such places might be occupied by trulls.
    “Trulls?”
    “Whores.”
    I felt a kind of cruel pleasure in using such words, as if this gave me back a little of the initiative which she seemed determined to seize. Angélica de Alquézar did not, after all, know everything. Besides, she may have been dressed as a man, and be very brave indeed, but in Madrid, and at night, I was in my element and she was not. The sword hanging from my belt was not an ornament.
    “Oh,” she said.
    This restored my composure. I might be head over heels in love, but this in no way diminished me, and, I concluded, it was no bad thing to make this clear.
    “Tell me what exactly you’re up to and where I fit in.”
    “Later,” she said and set off with determined step.
    I stayed where I was. After going only a short distance, she stopped and turned.
    “Tell me,” I insisted, “or you’re on your own.”
    “You wouldn’t do that.”
    She was standing there defiantly, a black shape in male costume, one hand resting casually on the belt on which she wore her dagger. I counted to ten, then spun round and strode away. Six, seven, eight steps. I was cursing inside and my heart was breaking. She was letting me leave, and I could not go back.
    “Wait,” she said.
    I stopped, much relieved. I heard her footsteps approaching, felt her hand on my arm. When I turned, her eyes were lit by a ray of moonlight slipping between the eaves. I thought I could smell fresh bread. It was her. Yes, she smelled of fresh bread.
    “I need an escort,” she said.
    “But why me?”
    “Because there’s no one else I can trust.”
    It sounded like the truth. It sounded like a lie. It sounded probable and improbable, possible and impossible, and the fact is, I didn’t care. She was close. Very close. If I had reached out a hand, I could have touched her body, her face.
    “There’s a man I have to watch,” she said.
    I stared at her in astonishment. What was a maid of honor from the court doing out alone in the dangerous Madrid night, keeping watch on a man? On whose orders? The sinister figure of her uncle, the royal secretary, came into my mind. I was, I realized, getting drawn in again. Angélica was the niece of one of Captain Alatriste’s mortal enemies; she was the same girl-woman who, three years before, had led me to the Inquisition’s dungeons and, almost, to the stake.
    “You must take me for a fool.”
    She said nothing, and the oval of her face was like a pale stain in the darkness, although there was still that glint of moonlight in her eyes. I noticed that she was edging closer and closer. Her body was so near now that the guard of her dagger was digging into my thigh.
    “Once I told you that I loved you,” she whispered.
    And she kissed me on the mouth.
     
     
     
    The only sources of light in