Free The Fencing Master by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

as a cadet wearing his uniform for the first time and on his way to his first assignation. Far from feeling awkward, he was reveling in that almost forgotten sensation. He picked up his one bottle of delicately perfumed cologne, sprinkled a few drops on his hands, then gently patted his cheeks. The lines around his gray eyes grew deeper as he smiled to himself.

    He was sure that nothing untoward would result from this particular meeting. He was too conscious of the reality of the situation to harbor any foolish illusions. However, there was no denying that there was something extremely piquant about it all. He had taken on a woman student for the first time in his life and, as Adela de Otero was the student in question, the situation had a quality that, without quite knowing why, he described to himself as aesthetic. The fact that his new client belonged to the opposite sex was something he had already come to terms with; once his initial resistance had been overcome, once he had swept his prejudices into a corner whence he could only just hear their feeble protests, their place had been taken by the pleasant feeling that something new was happening in his until then monotonous existence. 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