They had only to cross swords for him to see that she had had an excellent teacher. He made a couple of feints to test his opponent's reactions; she replied calmly, keeping her distance and remaining on the defensive, conscious that her opponent was a man extraordinarily well versed in combat. Don Jaime could categorize opponents at once merely by observing the positions they assumed and by testing the firmness of their steel, and this young woman certainly knew how to fence. She behaved with a curious combination of aggression and calm; she was perfectly ready to lunge, but she was cool enough not to underestimate a formidable opponent, however often he appeared to offer her opportunities to deliver a decisive thrust. She remained prudently in quarte, resting her defense on the upper third of her foil, quick to take avoiding action when the teacher changed tactics and came too close Like all expert fencers, she did not look at the blades but into her opponent's eyes.
Don Jaime made a half thrust in tierce, intending it to be a false attack before he attacked in quarte—to test the young woman's reaction, because he still did not wish to touch her with his foil. To his surprise, she stood firm, and he saw the tip of the enemy foil flash only a few inches from his belly when, with unexpected speed, she unleashed a low thrust in seconde, letting out a soft grunt between pursed lips. He retreated, not without some embarrassment, furious with himself for having been so careless. The young woman recovered herself, took two steps back and then advanced one, again in quarte, her lips pressed together and looking into her opponent's eyes through half-closed lids, in a pose of absolute concentration.
"Excellent," murmured Don Jaime loud enough for her to hear, but she showed no satisfaction at his praise. There was a vertical line between her eyebrows, and a bead of sweat ran down from her forehead to her cheek. The skirt did not seem to encumber her movements; she held the foil with her arm slightly bent, aware of Don Jaime's slightest gesture. She was less beautiful like that, he thought; she was still beautiful, but now her beauty lay in the tension with which her body seemed almost to vibrate. There was something mannish about her, but also something dark and wild.
Señora de Otero did not move sideways, she kept the line and maintained the correct measure on which purists were so keen and which Don Jaime himself recommended to his pupils. He advanced three steps, and she responded by retreating three. He made a thrust in tierce, and the young woman opposed him with an impeccable counterparry in quarte, describing a small circle with her foil around the enemy blade, which was turned aside by the maneuver. He silently admired the clean execution of that defense, considered to be the most important of the principal parries; anyone who mastered it knew all there was to know about fencing. He waited for her to lunge immediately in quarte, which she did; he neutralized the attack and delivered a thrust over her arm which would have hit home had he not deliberately stopped about an inch short. The young woman noticed this, stepped back without lowering her foil, and looked at him eyes blazing.
"I'm not paying you so that you can just toy with me as if I were one of your beginners, Don Jaime." Her voice trembled with ill-contained anger. "If you're going to hit me, then do so."
He stammered an apology, amazed at her furious reaction. She merely resumed her frown of concentration, and suddenly lunged forward so violently that he barely had time to interpose his foil in quarte, although the force of the attack obliged him to step back. He attacked in quarte to keep his distance, but she continued her assault, engaging, attacking, and advancing with extraordinary speed, marking each movement with a hoarse cry. Less troubled by the nature of the attack than by the young woman's passionate determination, Don Jaime continued to retreat, staring, as if hypnotized, at the terrible expression contorting his opponent's face. He broke ground, and she followed him, advancing. He broke ground again, but she advanced again, engaging and thrusting in quinte. He again drew back, and this time she engaged in quinte and attacked in seconde. "Enough is enough," thought Don Jaime, determined to put an end to this absurd situation But the young woman still had time to engage in tierce and attack in quarte over the arm before he had completely recovered himself. With considerable difficulty he managed to extricate himself and standing firm waited for her to present her foil horizontally He disarmed her with a short sharp blow on the blade and almost simultaneously raised his foil and held the tip to her throat As her weapon fell to the floor she jumped back staring at the threatening foil as if a serpent were about to bite her.
They exchanged a measured, silent look. To his surprise, the fencing master noticed that the young woman no longer appeared angry. The anger that had contorted her features during the fight gave way to a smile in which there was a flicker of irony. He realized that she was glad to have given him a hard bout, and this irritated him.
"What were you trying to do? In a fight without protected foils, something like that could have cost you your life, madam. Fencing isn't a game."
She threw her head back and let out a joyful laugh, like a little girl who has perpetrated some magnificent piece of mischief. Her cheeks were flushed with the physical exertion, and there were tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip. Even her eyelashes seemed damp, and it crossed his mind—though he immediately dismissed the thought—that this was how she must look after making love.
"Don't be angry with me, maestro." Her voice and face had changed completely; they were now full of sweetness, giving her a honeyed charm, a warm beauty. She was still breathing hard, her breast rising and falling beneath the protective plastron. "I just wanted to show you that there was no need for you to treat me with paternal care. When I have a foil in my hand, I can't bear being treated with kid gloves, the way men usually treat women. As you see, I am perfectly capable of putting up a good fight," she added in a tone in which he thought he could hear a touch of menace. "And a sword thrust is a sword thrust, whoever deals it."
Don Jaime had no choice but to yield to that argument. "In that case, madam, I am the one who should apologize." She in turn graciously saluted. "I accept your apology." Her hair had come undone slightly, and one black lock brushed her shoulders; she raised her arms and pinned it back with the mother-of-pearl comb. "Shall we continue?"
Don Jaime nodded, picked up her foil from the floor, and handed it back to her. He was amazed at the young woman's courage; during the bout, the metal button that protected the tip of his foil had several times come dangerously close to her face, and yet at no point had she shown any sign of fear or concern.
"Now we really must use masks," he said. And she agreed. They both put on their masks and stood in the on-guard position. Don Jaime regretted that the metal mesh almost completely obscured the young woman's face. He could, however, still see the gleam in her eyes and the white line of her teeth when she opened her mouth to take a deep breath before making a lunge. This time, the bout proceeded without incident, the young woman fenced with absolute serenity, executing the moves impeccably and moving with great precision. Although she never managed to touch her opponent, he needed all his skill to avoid a couple of thrusts that would certainly have reached their target against someone less skillful than himself. As the metallic clash of foils filled the gallery, Don Jaime was thinking that Señora de Otero was easily a match for the worthiest fencers of his acquaintance. For his part, still holding back slightly despite the young woman's express wishes he finally found himself obliged to take her seriously On two occasions he was forced to touch his opponent in order not to be touched himself In all Señora de Otero received five hits to the chest which was not many given the quality of her veteran opponent.
When the clock struck six, they both stopped, overcome by the heat and by exhaustion. She took off her mask, wiping away the sweat with the towel that Don Jaime handed to her. Then she looked at him questioningly, awaiting his verdict.
He was smiling. "I would never have imagined it possible," he confessed frankly, and the young woman half-closed her eyes with satisfaction, like a cat receiving a caress. "How long have you been practicing fen
cing?"
"Since I was eighteen." Don Jaime tried to work out her age from that information, and she guessed his intention. "I'm now twenty-seven."
He made a gesture of gallant surprise, as if to say that he had thought she was much younger.
"It really doesn't bother me," she said. "I've always thought it stupid to try to hide your age, or to pretend to be younger than you are. Denying your age is like denying your life."
"A wise philosophy."
"Just common sense, maestro, just common sense."
"That's not a very feminine quality," he said with a smile.
"You'd be surprised how many feminine qualities I lack."
Someone knocked at the door, and Señora de Otero looked annoyed. "It must be Lucía. I told her to come back for me in an hour."
Don Jaime excused himself and went to open the door. It was in fact the maid. When he returned to the gallery, the young woman was already in the changing room. Again she had left the door slightly open.
He returned the foils to their racks and picked up the masks from the floor. When Señora de Otero reappeared, she was once more in her muslin dress and was brushing her hair, gripping the mother-of-pearl comb between her teeth. Her long hair came below her shoulders; it was very black and glossy.
"So when will you teach me your sword thrust?"
Don Jaime had to acknowledge that she had every right to learn the two-hundred-escudo thrust. "The day after tomorrow, at the same time," he said. "My services include learning how to perform the thrust and how to parry it too. With your experience, you'll need only two or three lessons to master it completely."
She looked pleased. "I think I'll enjoy practicing with you, Don Jaime," she said warmly, as if uttering a spontaneous confidence. "It's a pleasure fighting with someone so ... so delightfully classical. You obviously belong to the old French school: body erect, legs at full stretch, and lunging only when absolutely necessary. There are not many fencers like you around anymore."
"Alas not, madam."
"I noticed too," she added, "that you have a special quality in a fencer. It's what the experts call, what is it now? Yes, sentiment du fer. Is that right? Apparently only the most talented of fencers have it."
Don Jaime nodded vaguely, as if the matter were of no importance, although deep down he was flattered by the young woman's perspicacity. "It's merely the product of a lot of hard work," he said. "It's a kind of sixth sense that allows you to extend your sense of touch from the fingers down to the very tip of the foil itself. It's a special instinct that warns you of your opponent's intentions and sometimes allows you to predict his moves a fraction of a second before they happen."
"I'd like to learn that too," said the woman.
"Impossible. It's a question of practice. There's no secret to it, no one can buy it with money. In order to get it, you need a whole lifetime, a lifetime like mine."
She seemed suddenly to remember something. "As regards your fee," she said, "would you rather be paid in cash or with an order drawn on a bank, the Bank of Italy, for example. Once I've learned the thrust, I would like to continue practicing with you for some time."
He protested politely. Given the circumstances, it would be a pleasure to offer his services to the lady with no further reward, etc. It was therefore improper to speak of money.
She looked at him coldly and made it quite clear that if she was using the professional services of a fencing master, they would be paid for. Then, regarding the matter as closed, she again caught up her hair at the back of her neck with rapid, precise movements, pinning it in place with the comb.
Don Jaime put on his jacket and accompanied his new client to the living room. The maid was waiting on the stairs, but Adela de Otero seemed in no hurry to leave. She asked for a glass of water and lingered for a moment, looking with frank curiosity at the titles of the books lining the shelves.
"I would give my best foil to know who your fencing master was, Señora de Otero."
"And which is your best foil?" she asked without looking around, while she ran a finger delicately along the spine of a copy of Talleyrand's Memoirs.
"A Milanese foil, forged by D'Arcadi."
The young woman pursed her lips as if considering the matter, amused. "It's a tempting offer, but I can't accept. If a woman is to preserve some attraction, she must surround herself with a little mystery. Let's just say that my teacher was a very good one."
"I can see that. And you were an excellent pupil."
"Thank you."
"It's absolutely true. Anyway, if you'll allow me to venture an opinion, I would say that he was an Italian. Some of your movements are characteristic of that honorable school."
Señora de Otero raised one finger delicately to her lips. "We'll talk about that another day, maestro," she said in a low voice, like someone confiding a secret. She looked around and, pointing to the sofa, asked, "May I sit down?"
"Please do."
With a rustle of skirts, she sat on the worn brown leather. Don Jaime remained standing, feeling slightly awkward.
"Where did you learn to fence, maestro?"
He looked at her sardonically. "I find your impudence charming, madam. You refuse to enlighten me about your young life, then immediately interrogate me about mine. That's not fair."
She gave him a seductive smile. "One can never be too unfair with men, Don Jaime."
"A very cruel response."
"And a very sincere one."
He looked at her thoughtfully. "Doña Adela," he said after a moment, suddenly serious, and with such simplicity that his words were far from being polite flattery. "I would give anything to be able to send my card and my seconds to the man who inspired such bitter thoughts in you."
She looked at him, amused at first, then surprised when she realized that he was not joking. She started to say something but stopped, her lips half-open, as if savoring what she had just heard.
"That," she said after a moment, "is the most gallant compliment I have ever heard in my life."
Don Jaime leaned on the back of a chair. He frowned, embarrassed. The truth is, it had not been his intention to appear gallant; he had merely put what he felt into words. Now he was afraid that it might have seemed ridiculous—in a man of his age.
She noticed his embarrassment and, coming to his aid, returned quite naturally to the initial topic of conversation. "You were going to tell me how you began fencing, maestro."
Don Jaime smiled gratefully and pretended reluctantly to lower his guard. "When I was in the army."
She looked at him with renewed interest. "You were a soldier?"
"Yes, for a brief period of my life."
"You must have cut an elegant figure in uniform. You still do."
"Madam, please don't pander to my vanity. We old men are very susceptible to that kind of thing, especially when it comes from a charming young woman, whose husband no doubt..."
He left the words hanging in the air, in vain. Adela de Otero merely looked at him as if waiting for him to finish the phrase. After a moment, she took a fan from her handbag and held it between her fingers, without opening it. When she spoke, the expression in her eyes had hardened.
"Is that how you see me, as a charming young woman?"
He stammered, confused. "Of course," he said after a moment, as coolly as he could.
"Is that how you would describe me to your friends at your club—a charming young woman?"
Don Jaime drew himself up, as if he had been insulted. "Señora de Otero, I must tell you that I have neither club nor friends. And I feel it only right to add that in the unlikely event that I should find myself in such circumstances, I would never stoop so low as to mention a lady's name."
She gave him a long look, as if trying to judge the sincerity of his words.
"Besides," he added, "a moment ago you described me as cutting an elegant figure, and I took no offense. Neither did I ask you if that is how you would describe me to your female friends over tea."<
br />
The young woman laughed, and Don Jaime followed suit. Her fan slipped to the floor, and he hurriedly picked it up. He returned it to her, still with one knee on the floor. At that moment, their faces were only a few inches apart.
"I have no friends, and I never take tea," she said, and Don Jaime was able to gaze at his leisure into those violet eyes. He was seeing them up close for the first time. "But you, did you never have friends? I mean true friends, people to whom you could entrust your life."
He got up slowly. Replying to that question required no great effort of memory. "Once, but it wasn't a friendship exactly. I had the honor of spending several years with Lucien de Montespan. He taught me everything I know."
Adela de Otero repeated the name under her breath; it was clear that it was not a name she was familiar with.
Don Jaime smiled. "Of course, you're too young." He stared into space for a moment, then said, "He was the best fencing master of his day. In his prime, there was no one to beat him." He thought for a moment about what he had said. "Absolutely no one."
"Did you work in France?"
"Yes. I worked for eleven years as a maître d'armes. I returned to Spain in 1850."
She looked at him hard, as if she derived a certain morbid satisfaction out of extracting these memories from him. "You probably missed your country. I know that feeling myself."
Don Jaime did not reply at once. He knew perfectly well that the young woman was forcing him to talk about himself, something he was not, by nature, inclined to do. Nevertheless, a strange attraction emanated from Adela de Otero which invited him, sweetly, dangerously, to confide ever more.
The Fencing Master Page 7