Chap­ter VII begins with Lazaril­lo reap­ing the fruits of a life­time spent dodg­ing mis­for­tune and adapt­ing with wit. No longer the boy scram­bling for crusts or run­ning from cru­el mas­ters, he now walks through the streets in respectable clothes pur­chased with mon­ey he earned. His role as a chaplain’s water car­ri­er behind him, he tries his hand briefly at being a bailiff. That job, how­ev­er, quick­ly reveals its dan­gers when faced with out­laws and des­per­ate crim­i­nals. Real­iz­ing that courage with­out a sword is a fast path to a grave, he steps away from the post. What fol­lows is not retreat, but recal­i­bra­tion. His desire shifts from ambi­tion to sta­bil­i­ty, from chas­ing rank to build­ing some­thing that will last.

In time, an oppor­tu­ni­ty presents itself—not through vio­lence or toil, but through divine align­ment, or so Lazaril­lo believes. A gov­ern­ment posi­tion becomes avail­able: town crier. This job requires no blade, only a voice loud enough to echo across mar­ket squares. It suits him. He becomes known not as a beg­gar or a bur­den, but as a man who car­ries news and val­ue. His name trav­els with announce­ments, and with each pass­ing week, his role becomes more than just functional—it becomes respectable. The posi­tion places him under the eye of the Arch­priest of San Sal­vador, who, not­ing Lazarillo’s grow­ing influ­ence and trust­wor­thi­ness, offers some­thing unex­pect­ed. His maid, unmar­ried and prac­ti­cal, becomes Lazarillo’s wife. This arrange­ment, while born of con­ve­nience, brings Lazaril­lo a kind of domes­tic com­fort he nev­er thought pos­si­ble.

Mar­riage brings with it not just com­pan­ion­ship but a deep­en­ing of ties with the church. The arch­priest makes sure their home is always stocked—flour, meat, bread, and even the old priest’s used socks are sent to them with care. Lazaril­lo does not ques­tion the gen­eros­i­ty. He sees it as a reward, not just for loy­al­ty but for know­ing how to remain use­ful with­out over­step­ping. Yet whis­pers begin. Neigh­bors talk. The close­ness between the arch­priest and his wife invites sus­pi­cions. Some say she’s more than a ser­vant. Oth­ers hint at a past, at chil­dren hid­den or aban­doned. The gos­sip, while bit­ing, nev­er ful­ly sur­faces in con­fronta­tion. It lingers, cru­el and thin, like smoke over a fire no one wants to admit is burn­ing.

The arch­priest, sens­ing the ten­sion, tells Lazaril­lo plain­ly that peo­ple will always talk. What mat­ters, he says, is the life they live and the ben­e­fits they enjoy. He urges Lazaril­lo not to ruin good for­tune chas­ing shad­ows. Lazaril­lo, worn by years of scarci­ty and beat­en down by real­i­ty, choos­es not to fight what he can­not prove. He tells him­self that peace often comes not from inno­cence but from accep­tance. He begins to care less about what might be true and more about what is use­ful. And in this balance—this delib­er­ate ignorance—he finds a kind of peace. He eats well. His home is warm. His name is known, and no one strikes him in the street. This, for Lazaril­lo, is vic­to­ry.

His sto­ry ends not with tri­umph in bat­tle or a rise to nobil­i­ty, but with a qui­et, ground­ed sta­bil­i­ty. It’s not a fairy tale—it’s a sur­vival tale. One built not on hero­ic deeds, but on clever endurance. Lazaril­lo has become the kind of man who can live with dis­com­fort, so long as it is dressed in com­fort. The rumors may bite, but they do not starve him. And so he keeps walk­ing, not with pride, but with enough to get through each day. His past taught him that fate rarely smiles twice. So when it does, even if that smile hides secrets, he keeps it close and doesn’t ask too many ques­tions.