Chap­ter XIII: How Lazaro Was a Squire for Sev­en Women at One Time begins with his arrival in Val­ladol­id, a city where appear­ances often dic­tate oppor­tu­ni­ties. Dressed in lay­ers of odd gar­ments stitched togeth­er for max­i­mum sym­pa­thy, Lazaro doesn’t just walk the streets—he per­forms his suf­fer­ing to attract pity. The reac­tion is mixed; some laugh, oth­ers toss him coins, but either way, it works. From those con­tri­bu­tions, he scrapes togeth­er enough to eat, though not enough to live with dig­ni­ty. Things shift when he meets Jua­na Perez, a veiled woman who sees poten­tial in his per­for­mance. Rather than hir­ing him as a sim­ple ser­vant, she offers him a unique arrangement—one that is both humor­ous and reveal­ing of the lengths peo­ple go to main­tain appear­ances.

Jua­na explains she can­not afford to keep a squire on her own. Her solu­tion is uncon­ven­tion­al: Lazaro would be shared among her and six oth­er women. Each would pay him a mod­est wage, and he would divide his time among them as need­ed. Eager to escape street beg­ging, Lazaro agrees. His cane is thrown aside—a the­atri­cal exit from his pri­or disguise—and his duties begin. Each woman presents a dif­fer­ent chal­lenge, but he adapts quick­ly. The rou­tine offers a steady, if small, income, and intro­duces him to an entire­ly new kind of domes­tic dra­ma. Far from being a glam­orous post, his new role demands flex­i­bil­i­ty, patience, and a tal­ent for sub­tle obser­va­tion.

His dai­ly tasks shift from sweep­ing floors to car­ry­ing mes­sages, even to offer­ing an arm on strolls meant to dis­play his mis­tress­es’ false respectabil­i­ty. These women, bound by class expec­ta­tions yet lim­it­ed by eco­nom­ic con­straint, rely on illu­sion as much as Lazaro does. One of them, the wife of a tan­ner, com­plains con­stant­ly but pays on time. Anoth­er, the live­ly girl, teas­es him end­less­ly but insists he car­ry her para­sol in the mar­ket. Per­haps the most gen­er­ous is the tripe mer­chant who, though less refined, ensures he nev­er goes hun­gry. Each woman reveals a dif­fer­ent facet of society’s attempts to main­tain sta­tus while liv­ing far from wealth or virtue.

The house of the last mis­tress, the devout woman, appears at first to be a retreat of holi­ness. Her piety is loud­ly pro­fessed, and she’s often found pray­ing with fer­vor. Yet Lazaro, obser­vant as ever, soon notices a curi­ous rhythm of night­time vis­i­tors. The fri­ars, garbed in robes of humil­i­ty, leave behind coins, cheeses, and small trinkets—gifts that mys­te­ri­ous­ly van­ish by morn­ing. Lazaro is asked to car­ry these items out dis­creet­ly. In doing so, he becomes a qui­et accom­plice to a dai­ly per­for­mance of moral­i­ty, one he finds amus­ing rather than offen­sive. He sees no scan­dal, only rou­tine hypocrisy hid­den behind whis­pered prayers.

Despite being paid in small amounts by each woman, Lazaro earns enough to sup­port him­self mod­est­ly. His liv­ing quar­ters are lit­tle more than a stor­age room, but it is dry and some­what pri­vate. Through this chap­ter, his wit remains intact, offer­ing dry com­men­tary on the con­tra­dic­tion between pub­lic virtue and pri­vate action. Lazaro doesn’t judge harsh­ly; instead, he treats duplic­i­ty as a uni­ver­sal con­stant. Every­one, from beg­gar to fri­ar, plays a part to sur­vive. And he, ever the sur­vivor, choos­es to laugh rather than cry at the absur­di­ty of it all. His expe­ri­ences pro­vide insight into gen­der, reli­gion, and class with­out preaching—just show­ing.

In serv­ing these sev­en women, Lazaro dis­cov­ers not just liveli­hood but also an infor­mal edu­ca­tion in human behav­ior. He learns when to speak, when to van­ish, and how to turn indig­ni­ty into lever­age. He comes to under­stand the silent agree­ments that struc­ture every­day life—the unspo­ken deals, the per­for­ma­tive roles, the del­i­cate bal­ance between servi­tude and agency. His tale is rich with irony but nev­er bit­ter. It is not sim­ply about being a ser­vant to many; it is about how iden­ti­ty and util­i­ty shift with need. This chap­ter, like the rest of his sto­ry, reveals more about soci­ety than about Lazaro himself—yet it is through his eyes that truth finds its clear­est reflec­tion.

Through these expe­ri­ences, the read­er is shown how resource­ful­ness can some­times be more valu­able than virtue. Lazaro’s adapt­abil­i­ty isn’t sim­ply a sur­vival tac­tic; it’s a mir­ror to the world around him. In serv­ing sev­en women—each caught in her own façade—he qui­et­ly expos­es a world built on masks. Yet he also reminds us that behind those masks, peo­ple seek joy, love, and dig­ni­ty, even if through decep­tion. The chap­ter clos­es not with judg­ment but with a sense of qui­et resilience, prov­ing once again that the poor­est man in the room may be the wis­est observ­er of all.