Beauvallet · Chapter 10 (1/2)

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In bed next morning Sir Nicholas sipped a cup of chocolate and gave ear to his servant. Joshua had the news he wanted, and imparted it after his own fashion as he laid out his master’s dress. A bottle of wine with the landlord of the Rising Sun had loosened a tongue that dealt much in gossip. Who so clever as Joshua Dimmock at finding out information? Let Sir Nicholas be at ease: the lady was found.

“In the guardianship of her aunt. I know,” Sir Nicholas said.

Joshua was put out. “Ay, so it is, and Don Manuel dead these three months. The lady inherits all⁠—all!”

“That does not concern us,” said Beauvallet. “She cannot carry her lands to England.”

“True, master, very true. But here is somewhat you may not have heard. Her espousals are talked of.”

Sir Nicholas yawned. “They will be more talked of yet,” said he.

“Master, the tale runs that she will wed her cousin, one Diego de Carvalho.”

“So-so!” said Beauvallet. “Early days to talk of betrothals yet. Cousin, eh? That means a dispensation, or I’m much at fault.”

“You mistake me, sir: nothing is yet done. These are rumours.” He laid a finger against his nose. “This gives to think, master. I learn that the Carvalhos are as poor as may be. Nothing to gape at there, you say. True; there seem few enough nobles here with coins to rub together. Curious, curious! And yet so much pomp! We do not use that way in England. Under my breath I say it; have no fear of me. Perpend then, master. What if this aunt⁠—her name is Beatrice, for your better information⁠—hath made a little plot to possess herself of all this wealth?”

“Very possible,” nodded Sir Nicholas. “And a bribe to the Church to hasten the dispensation.”

“Certain, I think, master. These priests! If what one hears be true!”

“What do you learn of Don Diego?” demanded Sir Nicholas.

“Little to the point, sir. A creature of no weight, as it seems to me. These Spanish caballeros! Foh, match me a young Englishman, say I! Well, he is prodigal: all young men are so. It’s to say nothing. He does what all springalds do in ruffling it about the town. For the rest I learn that he is accounted well-looking, rides comely, knows how to handle a bilbo, hath elegant accomplishments by the score. You nose out a fop. I do not gainsay it, for so it appears to me. He need not concern us.”

“He might concern us very nearly,” said Sir Nicholas. “What else? Is the father of this fine sprig alive?”

“Surely, master, but here again I would say, a creature of no account. As I read our host’s talk⁠—in his cups he waxes a thought garrulous. Strange sight in one so prim!⁠—he lies beneath his good lady’s thumb.” He made a descriptive gesture. “So! By all I can understand that is a lady of odd manners, sir. You would say an original. We shall doubtless know more anon. They have estates somewhere to the north of Burgos, as I apprehend, but at this present, sir, they stay, all four, at their house in Madrid. This I have found, off the Plaza de Oriente. While you slept, master, I have been about the town a little. Some fine buildings, to be sure, and a quantity of Popish Churches⁠—enough to turn a man’s stomach. The house of the Carvalho you may find easily. There is a wall grown with a vine at the back, and, as I judge, a garden upon the inner side.” He rolled a knowing eye. “Thought I, we may find a use for that. Further, master, there is to be a ball given this day week at that house, in honour of our Diego’s birthday. This is much talked of, for it seems these Spaniards do not give them often. All the world will be there.”

“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 love-knot, 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 coffeehouse, 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 bullfight 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 scrutinised 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—Doña 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. Doña 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 Frenchman,” she remarked. “I had ever a kindness for a Frenchman. Now, what do you make here, Chevalier?”

“Nothing but my pleasure, señora.”

It seemed an effort to her to raise her brows. “Do you find pleasure in Madrid?” she inquired. She went to a chair and sank into it, and began slowly to fan herself. “I find it unbearably fatiguing.”

“Why, señora, I find much pleasure here,” Beauvallet answered.

“You are young,” she said, in extenuation. “And French. So much vigour! So much enthusiasm!”

“Plenty of food for enthusiasm in Madrid, madam,” said Sir Nicholas politely.

“Ah! But when you attain to my years, señor, you will realize that there is nothing in the world to feed enthusiasm.”

“I shall hope to preserve my illusions, madame.”

“It is far better to have none,” drawled the lady.

Don Rodriguez, hovering solicitously about his spouse, smiled deprecatingly. He found himself in constant need to temper her oddities by this fidgetty, excusing smile.

“Let us talk in your own tongue, Chevalier. I speak it very indifferently, but it is a polite language.” She spoke it very well.

“My love, the Chevalier had hoped to find your poor brother. We have been speaking of his sad death.”

She answered without taking the trouble to look at him. “Why sad, señor? One must hope he has found repose. So you were acquainted with my brother, Chevalier?”

“No madame, but I knew a friend of his once, and I had hoped to present myself to his notice upon that score.”

“You would not have found him at all entertaining,” said Doña Beatrice. “It is far better to know me.”

Sir Nicholas bowed. “I am sure of it, madame,” he said, and was inclined to think he spoke sooth.

“I must have you come to my ball on Friday evening,” she announced. “It will be very painstaking and very dull. You shall solace my boredom. I suppose you must meet my son.” She sighed and addressed Don Rodriguez. “Señor, Don Diego is somewhere at hand. Pray send for him.”

“I have already had that pleasure, madame. I met your son upon the Mentidero yesterday.”

“Ah, then you will not want to see him again,” she said, as though she perfectly understood. “You need not send, señor.”

Sir Nicholas bit his lip. “On the contrary, I shall be charmed, madame.”

Her eyelids lifted for a moment. He thought he had never seen eyes so curiously cold, so cynical, yet so good-humoured. “Señor, send for Don Diego,” she sighed.

In a minute or two Don Diego came in, and with him the scent of musk. He was very punctilious in his manner towards Sir Nicholas, and while the two men spoke together his mother lay back in her chair watching them with her omniscient smile.

“You will see the Chevalier at your ball, my son,” she said. “My dear Chevalier, how remiss I am! I did not tell you that it is in my son’s honour. His anniversary. I forget which, but no doubt he will tell you.”

“It can be of no interest to the Chevalier, señora,” said Don Diego, annoyed.

“I shall hope to have the felicity of meeting your niece, madame,” said Beauvallet. “Or perhaps she does not go into public yet?”

Don Diego looked cross; Doña Beatrice continued to fan herself. “She will be present,” she said placidly.

It struck Beauvallet that both father and son looked sharply at her, but she gave no sign. He rose to take his leave, kissed her hand, and was ushered forth.

When the door had closed behind him Don Diego gave a pettish shrug of the shoulder, and flung over to the window. “Why must you invite him for Friday?” he asked. “Are you so enamoured of him? He walks abroad as though he had bought Madrid.”

“I thought he might amuse me,” his mother replied. “A very personable man. It is most entertaining to see you at such a disadvantage, my son.”

Don Rodriguez expostulated at this. “My love, how can you say so? Diego is a proper caballero⁠—the properest in Madrid, I dare swear. His air, his carriage⁠—”

“Very exquisite, señor. I have never seen him otherwise, and I fear I never shall.”

“I do not profess to understand what you would be at, señora,” said Don Diego, with a half-laugh.