“There he is,” said the baroness. She peered through the slats of the shutters. “Yes, it’s he,” she added, lying down upon the sofa and picking up a book.
When she was well dressed and decked out she appeared appetizing; a blonde, buxom, good-looking wench.
“See here. It would be better for you to go into that other room,” said the baroness to Manuel, pointing to a bedchamber. “I’ll tell him that you’re studying.”
Manuel, who was by no means delighted with the rôle that had been assigned to him, disappeared into the alcove. Between this and the parlour was a curtained glass door. Manuel found this observation post quite comfortable, and began to spy through the shades. He was interested to see how the baroness would manage, how she would weave the strands of that deception, in which the least oversight might enmesh her.
When the maidservant of the boarding-house entered to announce Don Sergio, the baroness was already completely submerged in her part. Il vecchio came in solemnly, and saluted her; the baroness made a gesture of astonishment at sight of him, and then, with a languorous, haughty wave of the hand she indicated that he might be seated.
“The old Cromwell,” took a seat; Manuel could observe him calmly. He was pale,—of a chalky complexion.
“An ugly old papa I’ve picked up,” said Manuel to himself.
The baroness and Don Sergio began to talk in whispers. It was impossible to hear what they were saying. The chalky-complexioned old fellow gazed about the room, estimated the furniture, and was doubtless surprised to find so elegant a parlour.
Then he continued to speak heatedly; the baroness listened to him languidly, smiling with a certain amiable, kindly irony. It seemed to Manuel that all the old man needed was a pair of little horns and goat’s feet to represent, together with the baroness, a group he had seen a few days previously in a show-window on the Carrera de San Jerónimo. The title was “The Nymph and the Satyr.” Manuel thought that the old man was about to get down on his knees, and he felt like shouting, “Get out, Cromwell!”