The Fencing Master by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Read Free Book Online

be used in a vain attempt to calm the ambitions of the military, who were paid for their loyalty to the Crown in promotions and privileges, going to bed as moderates and waking up as liberals, according to the vagaries of the promotions ladder. Meanwhile, Madrid spent the afternoons sitting in the shade, leafing through clandestine newspapers, with a wine jug close to hand. On the corners, sellers cried their wares:
Horchata de chufa,
delicious
horchata de chufa!

    The Marqués de los Alumbres refused to go away for the summer, and he and Don Jaime kept up their daily ritual of fencing followed by a glass of sherry. In the Café Progreso, the marvels of a federal republic were proclaimed by Agapito Cárceles, whereas the more temperate Antonio Carreño sketched Masonic signs and threw himself wholeheartedly behind unitarianism, although without entirely discounting a proper constitutional monarchy. Don Lucas protested loudly every afternoon, and the music teacher stroked the marble tabletop and stared out the window with sad, gentle eyes. As for the fencing master, he could not rid his mind of the image of Adela de Otero.

    S OMEONE was knocking at the door. Don Jaime had returned from his morning walk and was freshening up a little before going down to eat at his usual tavern in Calle Mayor.
    He was in his shirtsleeves, rubbing his face and hands with cologne in order to gain some relief from the heat, when he heard the doorbell and stopped, surprised. He wasn't expecting anyone. He quickly ran a comb through his hair and put on an old silk dressing gown, a souvenir of better days, the left sleeve of which had long needed darning. He left the bedroom, crossed the small living room that also served as his office, and, opening the door, found himself face-to-face with Adela de Otero.
    "Good morning, Señor Astarloa. May I come in?"
    There was a touch of humility in her voice. She was wearing a low-cut, sky-blue dress with white lace at the cuffs, neck, and hem. On her head she wore a picture hat of fine straw adorned with a bunch of violets that matched her eyes. In her hands, covered by gloves of the same lace as on her dress, she carried a diminutive blue parasol. She was much more beautiful than she had seemed in her elegant living room on Calle Riaño.

    The fencing master hesitated for a moment, disconcerted by this unexpected apparition. "Of course, madam," he said. "I mean, of course, please ... do come in."
    He gestured for her to enter, although, after the abrupt way in which their conversation some days before had ended, the young woman's presence was a distinct embarrassment. As if guessing his state of mind, she gave him a prudent smile.
    "Thank you for receiving me, Don Jaime," she said, and her violet eyes looked at him from beneath long lashes, only increasing the fencing master's disquiet. "I was afraid that ... but then, I expected no less of you. I am glad to see that I was not mistaken."
    Don Jaime realized that she had feared he would slam the door in her face, and the thought startled him. He was, above all else, a gentleman. On the other hand, the young woman had, for the first time, addressed him by his Christian name, and that did nothing to calm his mind; to hide his confusion, he resorted to his habitual courtesy.
    "Please come in, madam."
    With a gallant gesture he invited her to cross the small hallway and go into the living room. Señora de Otero stopped in the middle of the dark, crowded room, looking curiously around at the objects that constituted Don Jaime's history. Completely unabashed, she ran a finger along the backs of some of the many books filling the dusty oak bookshelves: a dozen old treatises on fencing, bound copies of Dumas, Hugo, Balzac. There were also a few volumes of Plutarch's
Parallel Lives,
a much-read Homer, Novalis's
Heinrich von Ofterdingen,
several titles by Chateaubriand and Vigny, as well as various memoirs and technical treatises analyzing the military campaigns of the