I found myself by mischance separated from the main body of the army, and was taken prisoner by the enemy together with my detachment. I thought that was the end of me. Once we had reached the place where they were taking us, the Spanish began to strip us of our possessions. I pleaded to be allowed to keep only one object, which could not be of any use to them: it was the manuscript I had found. They at first raised objections, but in the end consulted their captain who, having cast his eyes over the book, came to me and thanked me for preserving intact a work to which he attached great value, as it contained the history of his ancestors. I told him how it had fallen into my hands. He then took me away with him, and during my quite lengthy stay in his house, where I was treated civilly, I asked him to translate the work for me into French. I wrote what follows as he dictated it.
The First Day
At the time of which I speak, the Count of Olivarez had not yet established new settlements in the lowering mountain range of the Sierra Morena, which separates the provinces of Andalusia and La Mancha.1 They were then only inhabited by smugglers, bandits and some gypsies who were said to murder travellers and then eat them: which is the origin of the Spanish proverb ‘Las gitanas de la Sierra Morena quieren carne de hombres.’2
But that was not all. Travellers who ventured into that wild country found themselves assailed, it was said, by countless terrors which would make even the stoutest of hearts tremble. Piteous wailing could be heard above the roar of the torrents and the howling of the storm; travellers were lured from their path by will-of-the-wisps, and invisible hands propelled them towards bottomless abysses.
There were in fact a few ventas3 or isolated hostelries scattered along that calamitous route, but ghosts who were even more diabolical than the innkeepers themselves had forced these last to flee and to leave them in control. Such ghosts struck bargains with the innkeepers, who retired to more peaceful parts of the country where they were disturbed only by the pangs of their consciences. The innkeeper at Andújar swore by St James of Compostella to the truth of these fantastic stories; he went on to say that the constables of the Holy Inquisition had refused to undertake any expedition into the Sierra Morena, and that travellers took the road through Jaen or Estramadura.
I replied to him that this choice of route might suit ordinary travellers, but that as King Philip V4 had graciously bestowed on me a commission in the Walloon Guards, I was bound by the sacred laws of honour to take the shortest route to Madrid without considering whether it was the most dangerous.
‘Señor,’ the innkeeper said, ‘a young military gentleman such as yourself will permit me to point out that if the king has entrusted him with a company of Walloon Guards at an age at which his chin is still as smooth as a girl’s, it would be wise of him to show prudence in such matters; now I maintain that once devils have taken over part of the country…’
He would have gone on, but I spurred my horse forward and did not stop until I thought I was out of earshot of his protestations. Only then did I turn round, and saw that, though distant, he was still indicating by his gesticulations that I should take the Estramadura road. My valet Lopez and my zagal5 Mosquito gave me pathetic looks which carried roughly the same meaning. I pretended not to understand them, and pressed on into the heathland in which the settlement called La Carlota has since been built.
Where there now stands a post-house, there was then a shelter which was well known to muleteers, who called it Los Alcornoques or the holm oaks, because two fine specimens of that tree gave shade to a copious spring which flowed into a marble trough. It was the only water and shade to be found between Andújar and the hostelry called the Venta Quemada, which was built in the middle of a wilderness, although it was tall and spacious. It was in fact an old Moorish fort which the Marqués de Peña Quemada had had repaired: hence the name Venta Quemada. The marqués had leased it to a citizen of Murcia who had turned it into an inn, the finest indeed of all the inns on that route. It was usual for travellers to leave Andújar in the morning, stop at Los Alcornoques in the middle of the day to consume the provisions they had brought with them, and pass the night, and often the following day as well, at the Venta Quemada, to prepare for the crossing of the mountains and to take on fresh provisions. That was the way I had planned my journey too.
But as we came close to the holm oaks and I was speaking to Lopez about the light meal that we were counting on eating there, I noticed that Mosquito was no longer with us; nor was the mule bearing our provisions. Lopez told me that Mosquito had stopped about a hundred paces back to adjust the saddle of his horse. We waited for him; we then took a few paces forward; we stopped to wait for him again; we called him; we turned back to look for him, but all to no avail. Mosquito had vanished and had taken with him our most cherished hopes, that is to say, our lunch. I alone had not eaten at all, for Lopez had been gnawing away throughout the journey at a Toboso cheese with which he had provided himself; but he was no more the merrier for that, and did not stop muttering under his breath that the innkeeper at Andújar had warned us, and that devils had surely carried off the unfortunate Mosquito.
When we reached Los Alcornoques, I found a basket full of vine leaves on the trough; it appeared to have once been full of fruit, and to have been left behind by a traveller. I plunged my hand into it out of curiosity and discovered to my delight four fine figs and an orange. I offered two figs to Lopez, but he declined them, saying that he could wait until evening; so I ate the fruit myself, and then turned to a nearby spring to quench my thirst. Lopez stopped me, however, claiming that the water would be bad for me after the fruit, and said that he had a little Alicante wine left which he could offer me. I accepted, but no sooner had I swallowed the wine than I felt a great heaviness come over me, and earth and sky began to spin round and round my head. I should certainly have fainted if Lopez had not hurriedly come to my assistance; he helped me recover from my attack of dizziness and told me that it was only the effects of exhaustion and lack of food, and nothing to be disturbed about.
Indeed, not only did I soon recover completely, but I found myself in a state of restless energy which was almost uncanny. The countryside appeared to me to be painted in the most glowing colours; as I looked at them, objects sparkled like stars in a summer night; I could feel my pulse pounding in my temples and my neck.
Lopez saw that my momentary weakness was past and could not restrain himself from continuing his lamentations.
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