Beauvallet Read online

  ‘Then so must I,’ said Beauvallet, and sprang out of bed. ‘Now how to make the acquaintance of the Carvalhos?’

  ‘Walk on the Mentidero, master,’ Joshua advised. ‘It is still the haunt of your Court gallant, as I hear. You might compare it with Duke Humphrey's Walk at home – to its disadvantage, mark you!’

  ‘A happy thought,’ said Beauvallet, pulling on his netherstocks. ‘I might perchance come up with my friend of last night.’

  The Mentidero was a raised walk along the wall of the Church of San Felipe el Real, which stood at the entrance to the Calle Mayor. Here came the wits of the day, and the courtiers, to exchange gossip, to talk the latest scandal, to exhibit a new fashion in cloaks, or a new way of tying a garter. Under it were a score of little booths, where one might buy such trifles as a pair of embroidered gloves for a lady, a loveknot, or an ouch of wrought silver. Across the Calle Mayor lay the Oñate Palace, with the rough sidewalk beneath where painters showed their pictures to attract the Court. The market lay in the centre of the Calle; there were water-carriers gathered there, and the scene was busy and noisy. Round about were shops, and here and there a coffee-house, where one might meet one's cronies.

  The gentleman from Andalusia was found upon the Mentidero, and professed himself charmed to meet the Chevalier again. Sir Nicholas joined him in his strolling up and down, and came at length to his business with him. In default of Don Manuel, whom he had hoped to meet, he would desire to present himself to Don Manuel's worthy brother-in-law. Yet he was uncertain how this project might be effected, since he could claim no acquaintance with the Carvalhos.

  The matter was very easily arranged. Don Juan de Aranda would himself present the Chevalier any time he should choose. He might meet Don Diego de Carvalho this very morning, if he wished, since Don Diego was abroad, after his usual custom, upon the Mentidero. They had passed him a while back, talking to de Lara and young Vasquez.

  They turned, therefore, and began to walk slowly back the way they had come.

  ‘I understand Don Diego to be a very proper caballero,’ Beauvallet remarked. ‘The only offspring, I believe?’

  ‘True, señor.’ Don Juan was a little reticent, and it struck Beauvallet that he had no great admiration for Don Diego. Presently he nodded, and spoke again. ‘There is Don Diego, señor: the smaller of the two.’

  A slight young gentleman was lounging gracefully ahead of them, exchanging languid conversation with another, just as elegant. Don Diego was very dark, with black brows, almost meeting over the bridge of his nose, and full, curved lips. He wore a jewel in the lobe of his left ear, was very generously scented with musk, and twirled a rose between one very white finger and thumb. A flat velvet hat with a plume in it was set on his curled head at an angle; his ruff was large and edged with lace, and his short cloak was lined with carnation silk.

  Sir Nicholas looked, and said afterwards that he had an instant itching in his toe. Be that as it may, he went forward very pleasantly, and upon Don Juan's introduction, made his best bow.

  The bow was returned. As Don Diego straightened his back he found a pair of very bright blue eyes looking into his. The two men seemed to measure each other; it is probable that each conceived an instant dislike for the other, but each hid the uncharitable emotion.

  ‘The Chevalier is travelling amongst us for his pleasure,’ said Don Juan. ‘We are all resolved to show him the true Spanish hospitality that he may carry a good tale of us home with him to Paris.’

  Don Diego smiled politely. ‘I hope so, señor. But the Chevalier comes at a bad season; the amusements draw to a close, and we all think of the country, just so soon as the Court moves to Valladolid.’ He looked at Beauvallet. ‘A pity you did not come a month ago, señor. There was a bull-fight might have interested you: I believe you do not have them in France. And an auto da fé as well. There was a great press of people,’ he said pensively. ‘One turned faint at the heat and the smell of the common people.’

  ‘Did you indeed?’ said Beauvallet sarcastically. For the life of him he could not control that disdainful curl of the lip. ‘What I have missed!’

  ‘Yes, I fear we shall see no more such sights yet awhile,’ said Don Diego regretfully. His wandering gaze came back to Beauvallet. ‘I regret I was not at de Losa's house last night, where I was told I might have had the felicity of meeting you.’ He bowed again.

  ‘My loss, señor,’ said Sir Nicholas. ‘I looked for Don Manuel de Rada, known to me through hearsay, and – alas! – heard the sad news of his death.’

  ‘Alas indeed,’ Don Diego answered. But it did not seem to Beauvallet that this sentiment came from the heart.

  ‘I shall do myself the honour of waiting upon your father, señor,’ said Beauvallet.

  ‘My father will count himself honoured, señor. Do you stay long in Madrid?’

  ‘Some few weeks, perhaps. No more, I believe. But I detain you.’ He stepped back, doffed his cap again, and bowed. ‘I shall hope to see more of you, señor.’

  ‘The pleasure will be mine, señor,’ returned Don Diego.

  On that they parted. Later in the day Sir Nicholas sought out his sponsor, Don Diaz de Losa, and had no difficulty in getting from him a letter of introduction to Don Rodriguez de Carvalho.

  ‘All goes merrily,’ he said to himself, as he walked back to the Rising Sun. ‘Enough for one day, I think. Patience, Nick!’

  Upon the morrow he made his way to the Casa Carvalho, and was fortunate enough to find Don Rodriguez at home. If he had hoped to see Dominica he was disappointed. No glimpse of her could be obtained, though he sharply scrutinized the windows that gave on to the patio as he crossed it behind the lackey.

  He was ushered into a dusky library that looked out on to the walled garden Joshua had discovered. Volumes in tooled leather lined the room; there were several chairs of walnut, tortuously carved, a Catalan chest, with flat pilasters upon its front and sides, and an escabeau over against the window.

  Don Rodriguez came in presently with de Losa's letter open in his hand. He was a lean man of middle age, with eyes rather too close-set to be trusted, Beauvallet thought. They shifted here and there, never resting for long on any one object. His mouth bore some resemblance to his son's, but there was weakness in the lines about it, and a kind of petulant uncertainty in the slightly pouting underlip.

  He received the Chevalier kindly, and said a great deal that was proper on the sad subject of his brother-in-law's death. His sighs were gusty, he shook his head, cast down his eyes to the floor, and meandered on in his talk of the exigencies of the West Indian climate.

  Beauvallet was becoming impatient of this tedious exchange of futilities when they were interrupted by a sound on the gravel walk outside. The long window was darkened, and there was the gentle hush of a lady's skirts.

  Sir Nicholas turned quickly, but the lady who stood looking in was not Dominica. She was a large woman, built on flowing lines, and dressed very richly in an embroidered gown of purple mochado. Her hair was extravagantly coiffed, her farthingale brushed the window-frame on either side as she came through, and her ruff stood up high behind her head. She was certainly handsome, and must have been lovely before increasing years made her stout. Her mouth was faintly smiling, and her eyes, almond-shaped under weary eyelids, smiled too. The hinted smile betokened a sort of compassionate amusement, as though the lady looked cynically upon her world, and found it foolish. She moved as one who would never hurry, and in spite of her ungainly farthingale she walked with a certain lazy grace.

  ‘Ah, Chevalier! My wife – Dona Beatrice,’ Don Rodriguez said. He addressed the lady with a hint of fluster in his voice as though he stood in lively awe of her. ‘My love, permit me to present to you a noble stranger to Madrid – M. le Chevalier de Guise.’

  The disillusioned eyes ran over Sir Nicholas; the smile seemed to deepen. Dona Beatrice held out a passive hand, and appeared to approve Beauvallet as he bent over it. Her voice was as languid as her carriage. ‘A