The Manuscript Found in Saragossa (56 page)

She had already gone by but I was still transfixed to the spot, entranced by those few words I had heard. Indeed the care she had taken to set my mind at rest could only arise from a burgeoning interest in me.

Back in my inn I ordered dinner to be brought and hoped that Busqueros would not appear. But he came in with the soup and said, ‘Señor Don Lope, I have turned down twenty invitations, but as I have told you I am utterly devoted to serving your lordship.'

I was very tempted to say something disagreeable to Señor Don Roque, but I remembered my father's order that I should not draw
my sword and thought that I must avoid a quarrel for that reason.

Busqueros had a place laid for himself, sat down and then said to me in a highly self-satisfied and smug way, ‘You must agree, Señor Don Lope, that I did you a great service yesterday. Without apparently intending to, I let the lady know that you were the son of a rich merchant. She pretended to feel great anger but it was to convince you that her heart was unmoved by the lure of wealth. Don't believe it, Señor Don Lope. You are young and have some wit and a handsome face. But when you are loved by another, money will play its part in it. But in my case, as it happens, that is not to be feared. When people like me, they like me for what I am, and I have never inspired passions in which self-interest played a part.'

Busqueros went on and on in the same vein, and when he had finished his meal he left. That evening I went to the Buen Retiro with a secret premonition that I would not see the pretty stranger there. And indeed she did not come but Busqueros did, and stayed with me the whole evening.

The next day he came to dine and, as he departed, he told me that he would join me at the Buen Retiro. I told him I would not be going there and, when evening came, as I was quite convinced he would not believe what I said, I hid in a shop on the way to the Buen Retiro. I had not been there long when I saw Busqueros go by. He went to the Buen Retiro, did not find me there and I saw him come away again. Then I went there myself. I took several turns around the garden and at last the pretty stranger appeared. I greeted her in a respectful way, which did not seem to displease her. I did not know whether I should thank her for what she had said to me in church.

She decided herself to save me from my predicament. Smilingly, she said, ‘You claim that one has the right to a reward when one has found an object which has been lost. And for having found this portrait you wanted to know what my connection was with its subject. Now you know it, so don't ask me more unless you find some other piece of property which belongs to me. For in that case you would have a right perhaps to further rewards. It is not, however, proper that we should often be seen to walk together. Farewell. I do not forbid you to accost me when you have something to say to me.'

The girl then bade me farewell graciously, to which I replied with
a deep bow. After that, I directed my steps to a nearby path parallel with the walk I had just left, towards which I allowed my eyes to stray. The stranger herself took a few more turns before leaving the garden, and in stepping into her carriage, she threw me a last glance in which I thought I could detect some benevolence.

The next morning I was still imbued by the same feeling, and was thinking all the while about how it might develop. It seemed that the moment might not be far off when the beautiful Inés would accord me the right to write to her. As I had never written any love-letters I thought it appropriate to practise so as to catch the style. So I put my hand to my pen and wrote the following letter:

That evening I felt like going out. I wandered the streets of Madrid and, passing by the Inn of the White Lion, thought that it would be pleasant to dine there and thus avoid the accursed Busqueros. So I
took my meal there and returned afterwards to my inn. I opened the drawer where I had put my amorous epistle. I could not find it. I asked my servants about it: they said that no one other than Busqueros had come. I was sure that he had taken it and I was very worried about what he would do with it. That evening I did not go directly to the Buen Retire but lay in waiting in the same shop in which I had been before. Soon the carriage of the fair Inés appeared, with Busqueros running after it, waving a letter he had in his hand. He made so much fuss with his gestures and cries that the carriage was stopped, and he took advantage of this to place the letter into the very hands of the addressee. Then the carriage went on its way towards the Buen Retiro and Busqueros went on his.

I did not know how this scene would end and walked on slowly towards the garden. There I found fair Inés sitting with her companion on a bench set in front of a bower.

She indicated that I should approach her and invited me to sit down. Then she said, ‘Señor, it is necessary that I speak frankly to you. First, I beg you to tell me why you have written to me such absurdities. Then, why did you give them to that man whose brazenness greatly displeased me, as you were able to witness?'

‘Señora,' I replied, ‘it is indeed true that I wrote that letter to you but I did not intend you to be given it. I wrote it for the pleasure of writing it and then I placed it in a drawer, whence it was taken by the detestable Busqueros, who has been the bane of my life since my arrival in Madrid.'

Inés started to laugh and read my letter with an indulgent air. Then she said to me, ‘Your name is Don Lope Soarez? Are you related to the great and rich merchant of Cadiz?'

I replied that I was his very son.

Inés then spoke of unimportant matters and went back to her carriage. Before stepping in, she said to me, ‘It is not proper that I should keep such absurdities so I shall give them back to you. But do not lose them, for I may ask you for them back one day.' And in giving me back my letter Inés squeezed my hand.

Until then no woman had squeezed my hand. I knew of examples of this in novels, but I had not been able accurately to assess what pleasure it produced simply by reading about it. I found this way of
expressing one's feelings quite charming and returned to my inn the happiest of men.

The next day Busqueros again did me the honour of dining with me. ‘Well,' he said, ‘the letter reached its destination. I can see from the way you look that it made a good impression.'

I was forced to agree that I had some obligation towards him.

Towards evening I went to the Buen Retiro and on going in saw Inés, who was about fifty paces ahead of me. She was without her companion and was followed a long way behind by a lackey. She turned, then continued to walk on, then let her fan fall to the ground. I took it back to her and she accepted it graciously and said, ‘I promised you an honourable reward whenever you bring back to me some lost possession. Let us sit on that bench and settle this great affair.'

She led me to the same bench which we had sat on the evening before and said to me, ‘Well, when you brought back this portrait you learnt that it was that of my brother. What do you wish to know now?'

‘Oh Señora,' I replied, ‘I want to know who you are, what you are called and to whom you are related.'

‘Listen,' said Inés to me, ‘you might be led to believe that your riches are such as to dazzle me, but you will banish this thought when you discover that I am the daughter of a man as rich as your father, Moro the banker.'

‘Heavens above!' I cried. ‘Have I heard correctly? Oh Señora, I am the unhappiest of men. I may not think of you without incurring my father's curse and that of my grandfather and my great-grandfather, Iñigo Soarez, who, having sailed the seven seas, established a trading house in Cadiz. All that remains for me is to die.'

At that moment Busqueros stuck his head out of the bower against which our bench was set and, placing it between Inés and myself, he said to her, ‘Don't believe a word of it, Señora. He always uses this trick when he wants to get rid of someone. As he wasn't keen on making my acquaintance, he alleged that his father had forbidden him to frequent the nobility. Now he's afraid of upsetting his great-grandfather, Iñigo Soarez, who, having sailed the seven seas, established a trading house in Cadiz. Don't be put off, Señora, little
Croesuses like him always find it difficult to take the bait, but they have to in the end.'

Inés stood up with a look of extreme indignation and made her way to her carriage.