“Well, here I am, alone, idle and at a loose end. I stroll about in the morning and evening, and fill up most of the day reading or playing in some way. It’s a dull sort of existence.”
“But you have nights that console the monotony of the days, if one may credit the chatter of the city busybody?”
“Whoever says so says wrongly. From now to the day of his death Don Mateo Diaz has no woman about him. But do not let us talk about me. For how long are you still going to remain here?”
Don Mateo was a Spaniard, forty years old, to whom André had been introduced during his first stay in Spain. He was a man of florid phrase and declamatory gesture, very rich, and famed for his love affairs. So André was surprised to hear that he had renounced the pomps and vanities of the flesh, but did not attempt to weary him with questions.
They walked by the river for a time, and all their talk was of Spain, its people, its policy, and history.
Then, “You will come and break your fast or lunch,” said Don Mateo. “My place is there, near the route D’Empalme. We shall be there in a half-hour, and, if you will permit me, I will keep you till the evening. I have some fine horses I should like to show off before you.”
“I agree to take lunch with you,” said André, “but I cannot stay. This evening I have a rendezvous that I must not fail to keep; that is a fact.”
“A lady ... I ask no questions. But stay as long as you can. When I was your age I did not want to be bothered with the outer world during my ’days of mystery.’ The only person I loved to speak to on such days was the woman of the moment.”
Don Mateo was silent for a while, then said in a tone of advice—