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

while I stayed where I was, cap in hand, eyes fixed on some point in the distance, and having to lean against the tiled frieze behind me in case my legs gave way. The girls were all whispering to each other, and Gastoncillo joined in. I scarcely knew where to look. The jester was, it is true, only three foot tall and as ugly as sin, and famed at court for his wicked tongue—you can imagine just how funny it would be to hear a French dwarf telling jokes—but the queen liked him and everyone laughed at his jests, even if only reluctantly and out of duty. Anyway, I stayed where I was, as still as one of the figures in the paintings that adorned the walls of the room, which had only been open since the very recent restoration work on the palace façade had been completed, for in that ancient building, dark rooms from the last century adjoined or flowed into entirely modern, newly decorated ones. I looked at Titian’s representations of Achilles and Ulysses above the doors, at his very apposite allegory Religion Succored by Spain , at the equestrian portrait of the great emperor Charles at the battle of Mühlberg, and, on the opposite wall, at another of Philip IV, also on horseback, painted by Diego Velázquez. Finally, when I knew each and every one of those canvases by heart, I summoned up sufficient courage to turn and look at the real reason for my unease. I could not say whether the pounding inside me came from the hammering of the carpenters who were preparing the nearby Salón Dorado for the queen’s evening party or from the blood pumping furiously through my veins and heart. However, there I stood, as if ready to withstand a charge from the Lutheran cavalry, and, opposite me, sitting on a red velvet cushion, was the blue-eyed angel-devil who simultaneously sweetened and soured my innocence and my youth. Needless to say, Angélica de Alquézar was watching me.
     
     
     
     
    About an hour later, when the visit was over, and I was following don Francisco de Quevedo through the porticos of the Queen’s Courtyard, the jester Gastoncillo caught up with me, tugged discreetly at the sleeve of my doublet, and pressed a tightly folded piece of paper into my hand. I stood for a moment studying it, as it lay unopened in my palm; then, before don Francisco saw the note, I slipped it into my purse. I looked around, feeling bold and gallant, the bearer of a secret message, like some character out of a cloak-and-sword drama. “Dear God,” I thought, “life is beautiful and the court is a fascinating place.” The palace, where decisions were made as to the fate of an empire that bestrode two worlds, reflected the pulse of the Spain which, just then, I found so intoxicating. The two courtyards, the queen’s and the king’s, were full of courtiers, suitors, and idlers who came and went between the palace and the mentidero outside, through the archway where, in the shadows or silhouetted against the light, I could see the checkered uniforms of the old guard. Don Francisco de Quevedo, who was, as I have said, very much in vogue at the time, was constantly being stopped by people greeting him deferentially or asking for his support for some plan or proposal. Someone sought a favor for his nephew, another for a son-in-law, someone else for his son or brother-in-law. No one offered anything in return, no one made any personal commitment. They were content—like pirates—to go around demanding favors, as if these were their right; and all of them, of course, claimed to have the blood of the Goths flowing in their veins; and all were in pursuit of the dream nurtured by every Spaniard: to live without doing a stroke of work, to pay no taxes, and to swagger about with a sword at their belt and a cross embroidered on their doublet. To give you an idea of just how far we Spaniards would go when it came to petitions and requests, not even the saints of the churches were free from such importunate demands; people placed letters of