And, not because he wanted to share the plan that for months now, since the moment of La Alazana’s arrival in Ciudad Real, had been preoccupying him, but just to show off a new plumage to impress her with, he added, “It doesn’t suit my political ambitions.”

After Leonardo walked out, Isabel remained still for a moment. Then, with automatic servility, she bent down to the carpet to rub away the stain left by the cigarette ash. What would Don Alfonso Cañaveral say if he came in here during the dance! He was always so exacting when it came to cleanliness.

With this simple gesture, Isabel was already tacitly preparing to obey her husband and attend to the guests. Her change of attitude was foreseeable. The scene that had just ended had left her exhausted. Despite her efforts to ignore it, a certain uneasy feeling was stealing over her: remorse. It seemed more difficult now to carry out a decision she had made in a different frame of mind. And of all Leonardo had said, her memory was feeding on a single phrase, the last one. When he spoke of his political ambitions, wasn’t he giving in, in a veiled way, to Isabel’s jealous demand? She preferred to interpret it that way. Although politics was no longer an occupation in which gentlemen put their leisure time to noble use and squandered their assets. Ever since the state government had moved from Ciudad Real to the lowlands, any upstart from the coast, any obliging fellow from Comitán, could flaunt his appointment to one position or another. Leonardo had other motives. But Isabel didn’t expect fidelity from him, only discretion. She herself would collaborate in concealing his true motives by pretending to believe in the false ones.

Isabel reproached herself for having recklessly judged La Alazana. What was so reprehensible about her behavior? Her way of walking freely through the streets by herself could well be perfectly innocent. She walked alone with her hair loose like . . . yes, like a roan mare, an alazana. There was a reason they gave her that nickname.

At the prospect of meeting a foreigner, a woman of ambiguous habits, a “temptress,” Isabel felt a flicker of anticipation.

A temptress . . . I must have read that in some novel, thought Isabel. His Excellency the bishop is right to forbid them. And if Leonardo visits the woman it isn’t to see her, it’s to see the husband. They have some business dealings, I think. And even if they don’t. Men aren’t used to being cooped up indoors, glued to their wife’s apron strings. Especially when there are no babies in the house with funny faces to laugh at and new achievements to celebrate.