"Pedro de Vargas means nothing to me of course," she said in her schooled, limpid voice to cover up the bum of her cheeks.
"Nothing?" smiled Antonia. "That's perfect then. A Uttle flirtation
would do you no harm, Cousin. It's taking young men seriously that hurts. In marriage, some experience beforehand is a great advantage. You know better how to please your husband—and manage him."
Luisa, more sophisticated than she appeared, asked innocently, "Experience?"
"Yes, chance meetings at church, unsigned letters, a word or two through the grille of a gate. No harm at all. He swears eternal troth. He thinks his heart is broken when you marry. You sigh a little. It's the spice of youth."
"It must be fun," Luisa agreed, careful to keep the eagerness out of her voice. And then, betraying herself, "Do you think he likes me?"
Antonia gave her a squeeze. Valgame Dios! He's mad about you! Any dunce can see that. If you lived in an ordinary house, you'd find him posted tonight under your window. But the poor boy can't besiege the Garvajal Palace. You'll have to give him a lead."
"How?"
"We'll think it over."
Antonia's eyes danced. Whatever happened, it was at least a pastime for an empty summer morning, usually so dull and hot behind the curtains of the mirador. As for Luisa, brand-new ideas were popping in her head like roasted chestnuts. She was being actually permitted by her duenna to think about a boy—not an imaginary boy such as she pictured before going to sleep at night, but a real boy with green-blue eyes and curly, bronze-colored hair! She might be allowed even to talk with him. Perhaps he wasn't so poor after all. That was the one fly in the ointment, because instinctively Luisa did not think much of poor people. Still, he was the son of Francisco de Vargas, and that partly made up for it. Luisa's heart raced under the strait jacket of her stays.
"What fun! May I call Sancha to unlace me? It's rather hot."
Antonia consented. "Yes, she can put me at ease too. The Marquis will not visit us this morning. They told me he was joining a man hunt for one of Diego de Silva's servants. There's an attractive man—Diego de Silva."
"Father says he has great holdings," commented Luisa absently.
"Rich as Croesus," Antonia nodded, "and of the first fashion. A relative of the Bishop of Burgos."
With scraping of brocade and creaking of laces, the ladies were divested of their church attire and of numerous petticoats. Luisa's trim figure expanded only slightly, but the duenna's a good deal. Exasperated, Sefiora Hernandez cuffed Sancha for pinching her at the unlacing. They then slipped into the long, negligee gowns of the period,
and at the same time, without knowing it, slipped forward in costume several hundred years. Sancha, kneeling, pulled the cruel, tight shoes from her mistresses' feet and replaced them with Moorish slippers. Then, at Antonia's direction, she brought a plate of candied fruit, placed it on a tabouret within reach of the couch, and retired.
Antonia, reclining, selected a fig and toyed with it a moment. A faint, flower-laden breeze stirred the window curtains. Luisa, seating herself on a cushion near by, looked up expectantly.
"That's better," Antonia sighed. "What were we talking about? Yes, de Vargas. In stays, one can't even think about love, can one?"
She nibbled the fruit. Her eyes deepened.
"We'll send him a letter, Primacita."
"What kind of letter? I could never write one."
"We'll do it together."
"What fun!"
Sefiora Hernandez gazed at the ceiling. Her lips moved. She smiled.
"Let me hear. Cousin," urged Luisa.
"Just a minute. Get the inkhorn and paper. Write down what I say." And when Luisa was ready, Antonia dictated, while the girl, who was not too handy a penman, labored with the tip of her tongue between her lips.
"Senor Cavalier, It is said that the devil dislikes holy water, which proves that Don Cupid is no devil, because he appears to thrive on it. If you would know more of the matter, you might apply at the gate of a certain garden tomorrow evening at nightfall. Which garden? Oh, sir, let Cupid instruct you."
"Why not tonight?" Luisa let slip before she could catch herself.
"For many reasons, my dove," Antonia instructed. "In the first place, you must not let him think that you are in too much of a hurry. In the second place, you must let him languish. In the third place, the Marquis de Carvajal is invited out tomorrow evening, and we shall be undisturbed. Know, my child, that the art of love is extremely subtle."
"You are very clever," Luisa admired. "But how can we send him the letter? Whom can we trust?"
The duenna nodded. "You're learning. Of course the chief point of love is secrecy. Don't worry, though. I'll send my servant, Esteban. He's carried messages to gentlemen—" She coughed. "I mean he knows me and knows what side his bread is buttered on."
"Thanks, darling Cousin!" Forgetting decorum, Luisa threw her arms around the other's neck. "And you'll teach me what I should say
tomorrow night?"
"Yes." Antonia was enjoying herself. "No girl but me has such a darling duenna." "I'm probably very weak, little rose." She gave Luisa a long kiss.
v/;
Peace after toil, port after stormy seas. No words could better describe Francisco de Vargas's retirement from active life. Though at times— especially after a visit or letter from some old comrade—he still discussed the possibility of returning to the service of king and honor in the arena of Italy, and cast yearning eyes on his weapons, he was becoming happily reconciled to the comforts of home and garden.
In this disposition, Doiia Maria warmly encouraged him. She pointed out that since their marriage in Florence twenty years ago, he had spent little more time with her than was enough to beget their children. She doubted, indeed, whether they would have had children at all, except for the fact that she had passed some of those years in her father's house, and had thus been available between campaigns.
"Honor, sir," she declared with Italian good sense, "is all very well until it becomes an excuse for travel and junketing. You have had all you need of it. A man of your years with a bad knee should not be elbowing young fellows and roaring Santiago in a charge."
"Do you call sword thrusts and wounds junketing, my love?" he protested, for she had put her finger on the weak point.
"Yes, sir, I do," she answered frankly. "But wounds and sword thrusts aren't the whole matter. In the service, you meet your friends; there's gossip and drinking, dicing and wenching, as you know very well."
"You talk as if I were a young dog like Pedro," returned her husband with a half-smile. "I trust that I have outlived such sins. As to my knee, you must admit that, once on horseback, I can hold my own against most gentlemen with lance, sword, or mace, as I proved last year in the tournament at Cordoba."
"And my heart was in my mouth every second," interjected Dofia Maria.
"Even on foot," continued the other, "I can still match our Pedro, though I grant it costs too much breath and sweat. He's very promising."
At that point, Dona Maria always clinched the argument. "Yes, and what becomes of his promise if you return to the wars? Ve certainly cannot afford to keep more than one of you in the army. What becomes of honor for him? What becomes of the dowry for our daughter if she is to be married? What becomes of me who love you, querido mio?"
But in truth he did not need much urging. It was pleasant to be one of Jaen's most respected citizens, to be called on as judge in matters of sport or punctilio, and to be the idol of his wife and children. He gradually became almost as proud of his vines and orchard on the western slope beyond the city as he had once been of the Great Captain's favor; and a bumper of his golden wine, the envy of the district, or a salver of purple plums from the orchard, was nearly as close to his heart as the earlier drums and trumpets of fame.
He had built an open pavilion on a terrace, overlooking his trees and vines, and spent many spring and summer evenings there. If at times the approaching o
bligation of fitting Pedro out for the wars in a worthy fashion counseled the sale of the property, he kept putting it off, as a man who clings to a final luxury. That he might have to sell it was plain, for accouterments and traveling expenses came high, and his small revenue could not meet the charge; but he would not sell this year perhaps. He had won much from ransoms and from the intaking of cities during the Italian campaigns; he had also spent much, as befitted his rank, and he had a casual attitude toward money. Perhaps, after all, a loan rather than a sale might tide things over until Pedro could win a ransom or prize for himself.
On the terrace or within the pavilion, he liked to take the air with his family and eat supper from the generous baskets carried by Mouse, the donkey. At times his twelve-year-old daughter, Mercedes, who had a gift with the lute, would sing favorite ballads; Dofia Maria busied herself with needlework; while often the old cavalier would discourse on campaigns and captains, pedigrees and heraldry, fine points of manners and the code of honor, which formed an essential and fascinating part of young Pedro's education.
In front and slightly below them stretched the plain, rich in olive groves; a neighboring brook grew loud toward evening; the crimson sun withdrew beneath the horizon. Often they lingered until the moon came out and the shrilling of the cicadas filled the night. So the afternoon of Don Francisco's life drew to a leisurely and reminiscent close.
It was only fitting that Pedro's name-day should be mildly celebrated at the pavilion. In their next best, if not their very best, clothes,
the four members of the de Vargas family sat on three sides of the small table so that everyone could look out over the landscape. Senor de Vargas was fastidious in small matters. He liked good plate on the table and fine linen. There must be a servingman prompt with ewer and napkin for fingers greasy from the handling of meat. Everyone must have his or her appointed silver cup.
"Like good tapestry," he used to observe, "a noble life is the result of small stitches."
This afternoon, he was richly dressed in black velvet, and he wore a heavy gold chain with a medal of Saint Francis about his neck. Because of the heat, he had removed his cap and sat bald-headed, though a fringe of hair still resisted time. Pedro had resumed his scarlet doublet. Dona Maria, as became her age, wore purple; and Mercedes had put on her saffron gown. The rays of the setting sun added color to the clothes and a gleam to the silver.
When the last bones had been tossed to the dogs, and when wine and fruit were brought, the old gentleman raised his goblet to Pedro.
"Long life, my son, and fame!" After drinking the health, he added: "Do not be depressed about your failure to bring in de Silva's servant. Not every enterprise succeeds. You laid your plans well, but finding a man in the sierras is difficult. As a matter of fact," he went on, "I'm not too sorry, because I have no great fondness for his master."
Pedro flushed. His pensiveness had nothing to do with Goatl, but concerned a letter, the stiff edges of which he could feel at that moment through his shirt. He was thinking how long it seemed until tomorrow night.
"Thank you, sir."
"Probably," the other continued, "we will not be having many more of your name-days together. Next year, if God wills, we shall drink to you abroad and, I hope, in the field. After beating the Swiss at Marignano, it isn't likely that the young French King, Francis, will rest too long on his laurels."
"They say his court at Fontainebleau is the gayest anywhere," Mercedes put in.
Her father nodded. "Creo que si. There are no higher-spirited or better-bred caballeros anywhere than the French. And apparently young Don Francis is most accomplished. The more I think of it," he went on hopefully, "the better your prospects look, son Pedro. We have three young and valorous monarchs in Europe today: Henry of England, Francis of France, and our own King, Don Carlos, whom God cherish. Where youth is, sparks will be flying."
Pedro roused himself. The subject was almost as absorbing as Luisa de Carvajal.
"You know, sir, coming back today, I met a man" (it was not expedient to state where) "who has spent many years in the Indies."
"And I have no doubt he's a notable rogue," grunted the older de Vargas.
It was so near a guess that Pedro felt startled.
"Why do you think so, sir?"
"Because it has been that way from the beginning. When the Admiral made his first voyage twenty-four years ago, he took the prison scum of Palos and Cadiz with him. Even my good friend, Alonso de Ojeda, who went along and was a young man of promise, became corrupted in the Indies and behaved, I understand, no better than a pirate. So it has been always. Rascal seamen, deserters, lawbreakers, gold hounds, young cadets on the loose, and rabble. There are a few exceptions, but not many. . . . What about this fellow?"
"He spoke of new lands, empires, gold."
The elder de Vargas stuck his lip out. "That proves he was a rogue. They found some islands with a lot of naked savages on them. I'm told they also found leagues of swamp land further west with more savages. What gold and pearls they found haven't paid for the good ships wrecked or the funds wasted, let alone brought in a return. For a while there was grand talk of treasure from this evil country, but it has amounted to nothing. Empires? Pooh! What has Spain ever got out of the New World but the French Sickness, the cursed pox, that the Admiral's ne'er-do-wells brought back with them!"
"And yet, sir," Pedro argued, "the man said that he left Spain poor and has now two thousand pesos."
"Probably a lie. Make it fifty. Those I have met from across seas are always big talkers."
Pedro clung desperately to his new enthusiasm. "It was only, sir, that I thought it might be possible—it might be interesting—"
"Oho!" said his father.
"To look into the matter."
"What matter?"
"As an alternative to Italy, sir. We have peace with France—"
Don Francisco slapped his palm on the table so vigorously that Doiia Maria jumped. "Exactly! I thought that was in the wind. Every boy in the two Castiles is cracked on the subject of picking up gold and Indian slaves for nothing, not to speak of an empire or so. Listen. I
had a friend in Estremadura. Martin Cortes de Monroy, as good a captain of foot as any in the army, a poor, but honorable man. He raised his son—I believe the name was Hernan—to be the support of his old age. He headed him for Italy under Don Gonsalvo himself. Well, the boy, who was an idle scapegrace, got moonstruck about the New World. Empires and mountains of gold or what-not. So he took the bit in his teeth and sailed for the Islands. He was just about your age.
Sefior de Vargas cooled his ire with a draught of wine.
"You must not excite yourself, my love," soothed Dofia Maria. "You ought not to accuse our son—"
"I am not accusing liim; I am instructing him," returned her husband. "That was thirteen or fourteen years ago. What happened? Well, this Hernan Cortes, after being in and out of jail a couple of times, gets mixed up with a trashy girl in one of the Islands, whom he is forced to marry. He runs a farm there, so his father told me, and has worked up to the wonderful position of alcalde in a twopenny village called Santiago. That's what his empire amounted to, and a deuced scurvy one. I could give you a dozen other examples. No," Sefior de Vargas concluded, "let this be understood once and for all. You are not going to the Indies. Get that nonsense out of your head this instant. You will follow the regular army career. It means work, but it means solid advancement."
Silence followed this outburst. Doiia Maria half smiled, because she knew that her husband's rough voice covered up a very gentle heart. Mercedes, excited to hear the discussion of such weighty matters, sat with her lips parted. Pedro accepted what he had been anticipating all along. Italy might not be so exciting as the Western World, but it had advantages.
Almost at once Don Francisco's irritation died down. He fingered his gold chain and cleared his throat a couple of times. Then, with the look of a man who has been keeping a pleasant surprise up his sleeve and decide
s that this is the moment to spring it, he said with attempted casualness: —
"You're right about the present peace with France. I've had a plan for some time which I didn't want to tell you of until it ripened. No use raising false hopes. I had a letter yesterday from the Sefior de Bayard in Grenoble."
The stir that greeted this announcement equaled Don Francisco's expectation. Maria de Vargas lowered her needlework, and her round face became an O of interest. Pedro forgot momentarily about Luisa
de Carvajal. Mercedes's dark eyes, already too big for her small face, became still larger.
"Seiior de Bayard!" echoed Pedro. "A letter from him?"
The name of the French chevalier "without fear and without reproach" was one to conjure with in military circles of that day. It was already legendary, though Bayard himself had not passed the middle forties. From the marches of Flanders to the mountains of Navarre, from the Alps to Naples, there was hardly a battlefield of the last twenty years which had not seen his pennon. He had slain the Spanish knight, Sotomayor, in one of the most famous duels of the age; he had taken a leading part in the day-long, bloody combat at Trani; he was one of the heroes of Fornuovo, Ravenna, Marignano; he had been selected as the only one from whom the young King of France would receive the order of knighthood. If Gonsalvo de Cordoba was the most distinguished general of the period. Bayard was its most illustrious single champion. Around his crest blazed the glory of departing chivalry.
He and Don Francisco had fought each other with mutual admiration for ten years, and his name was a household word in the de Vargas family. It was one of the old cavalier's titles of distinction that he had lost his front teeth from a blow of the good Chevalier's mace at Ceri-gnola, but had given as good as he got by unhorsing the beloved enemy in a later melee. He liked to describe the charge of the French horse at Ravenna.
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