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.He was happy to abandon himself to what he fancied was a harmless adventure in the autumn of his life, a subtle game involving newly recovered emotions one in which he would be the only real player.At a quarter to five, he made one last inspection of the house.Everything was in order in the studio that also served as a reception room.The caretaker, who cleaned the rooms three times a week, had carefully polished the mirrors in the fencing gallery where the heavy curtains and the open shutters created a pleasant atmosphere of golden shadows.At ten minutes to five, he took one last look in the mirror and made a few hurried adjustments to his clothes in order to correct what seemed to him some imperfection in his dress.He was wearing what he usually wore when he was working at home: a shirt, close-fitting fencing breeches, stockings, and soft leather shoes—all in immaculate white.For the occasion he had donned a rather old-fashioned dark-blue jacket, worn with use but comfortable and light, which he knew gave him an air of casual elegance.Around his neck he wore a fine white silk scarf.When the small wall clock was about to strike five, he went and sat down on the sofa in his living room, crossed his legs, and distractedly opened a book that was lying on the small table next to him, a shabby edition in quarto of the Mémoriale de Sainte-Hélène.He turned a few pages without taking in what he was reading, then looked at the hands on the clock: seven minutes past five.He briefly pondered women's lack of punctuality, only to be gripped by the fear that she might have changed her mind.He was beginning to get worried when someone knocked at the door.Those violet eyes were looking at him again, amused and ironic."Good afternoon, maestro.""Good afternoon, Señora de Otero."She turned to her maid, who was waiting on the landing.Don Jaime recognized the dark young woman who had opened the door to him on Calle Riaño."It's all right, Lucia.Come back for me in an hour."The servant handed her mistress a small traveling bag, then curtsied and went back down to the street.Señora de Otero removed the long pin from her hat and placed the hat and her parasol in Don Jaime's solicitous hands.Then she took a few steps about the studio, stopping as she had before by the portrait on the wall."He was a handsome man," she said.The fencing master had thought long and hard about how he should receive the lady, deciding in the end on an attitude of strict professionalism.He cleared his throat, indicating to her that he was not there to discuss his ancestor's physical features, and with a gesture that was intended to be both cool and courteous he invited her to go straight into the gallery.She gave him a brief look of amused surprise and then slowly nodded, like an obedient student.The tiny scar in the right-hand corner of her mouth retained the enigmatic smile that Don Jaime found so troubling.When they reached the gallery, the maestro drew back one of the curtains so that the light streamed in, multiplied by the large mirrors.The sun's rays fell directly on the young woman, framing her in a golden halo.She looked about her, clearly pleased with the atmosphere in the room: A violet gemstone glittered on her muslin dress.It occurred to the fencing master that Adela de Otero always wore something that matched her eyes, which she certainly knew how to show off to the best advantage."It's fascinating," she said, with genuine admiration.Don Jaime in turn looked at the mirrors, the old swords, the wooden floor, and shrugged."It's just a fencing gallery," he protested, secretly flattered.She shook her head and regarded her own image in the mirrors."No, it's more than that.In this light and with the old weapons on the walls, with the curtains and everything." Her eyes lingered too long on those of the fencing master, who, rather embarrassed, looked away."It must be a pleasure to work here, Don Jaime.It's all so.""Prehistoric?"She pursed her lips, missing the joke."No, it's not that," she said in her slightly husky voice, fumbling for the right word."It's so.decadent." She repeated the word as if it gave her a special pleasure."Yes, decadent in the most beautiful sense of the word, like a flower fading in a vase or a fine antique engraving.When I first met you, I imagined that your house would be something like this."Don Jaime shuffled his feet uneasily.The nearness of the young woman, her utter self-assurance that bordered almost on impudence, the vitality she seemed to exude, produced in him a strange confusion.He decided not to allow himself to fall under her spell and tried to get back to the reason that had brought them there.To this end, he expressed the hope that she had appropriate clothing with her.She reassured him by showing him her small traveling bag
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