Chapter 25

Victoria smiled, casting a glance at the table occupied by the de la Vegas. They were quietly celebrating their reunion, briefly interrupted from time to time by either of the tavern's customers coming to them to express his joy at Felipe's release or even to assure that of course, never, never ever had he believed him guilty, not for a split second – easy to say now that all this was over! Victoria thought – and between the three of them they had gradually reached the bottom of the pitcher of Rioja.

It was soon dinnertime and the tavern was three-quarters full. After their day's work and before dinner, whether they planned to have at the tavern or at home, many patrons had come here to quench their thirst and knock back a few drinks.

Victoria was waltzing from one table to another, a tray in one hand and a bottle in the other, when she saw a woman go down the stairs. Hadn't she herself helped her to do her hair and get dressed one hour earlier, Victoria would have hardly recognised Señorita Alacen.

The sick woman with her hair down and matted with sweat, covered in dust, looking drawn and rigged out like a scarecrow had been replaced by a clean young woman with disciplined hairstyle, her head held high, dressed in a clean and entirely seemly outfit.

Only signs of what he had recently happened to her: she was limping heavily and was keeping her left arm unmoving by her side, almost stiff, to prevent the joint of her shoulder from moving.

Her right hand clutched the banister, and one could see very clearly that she was heavily leaning on it when the weight of her body shifted to her right leg.

Another detail Victoria noted: Señorita Alacen had put some flowers from the Corporal Sepulveda's bouquet in her surely still wet hair, planted in her bun. Without her admitting it to herself, this observation made her smile.

Another observation that had made smile a little less, however, was noticing while she was helping her wash and get dressed that Señorita Alacen was probably younger than she was herself. Her skin, the firmness of her shapes, the features of her face – even in spite of the fatigue, dark circles and tiny wrinkles due to her condition – and up to her hair devoid of any white thread, everything seemed to reflect back to Victoria the sparkle of a youth that had still been hers a few years earlier but was now already beginning to fade.

Seeing the now spotlessly groomed señorita come down the stairs, these likely few years less seemed really obvious. And if they were such in Victoria's eyes, then they would also be in other's...

Victoria quickly swept this thought away, and as if to better erase it she wiped her counter with a sponge. The approach of the thirties was perhaps making her a bit bitter , that's all. But it certainly wasn't Señorita Alacen's fault that Victoria had found one more gray hair this morning in front of her mirror, that her bust was no longer as well emphasised by her blouses or that Zorro was (dilly-)dallying and keeping her hanging about year in, year out to fulfil his promise of a life together for the two of them... and maybe more than two.

No, none of that was the señorita's fault, Victoria reasoned, not even the fact that Diego de la Vega had just got up from his table to come and meet her at the bottom of the staircase.

Victoria wrung her sponge out, squeezing, twisting it forcefully long after the last drop of water had been squished out.

Flashes of earlier, when she helped the young woman get washed, came back to her mind and she suddenly remembered an illustration of a two-centuries-old painting she had seen in a book at the de la Vegas'. A painting that was entitled something like The toilet of Venus, Venus's bath or whatnot, she couldn't remember the exact name... But, much more to the point, she remembered very well having been utterly shocked at these pages and pages of naked or half-naked women on display. Of men too, come to think of that... Yes, she had been quite shocked at seeing that Don Diego owned books which contained pictures of naked women. But this was art, or so it seemed; from what he had told her then, anyway. Well, it might be art to some, yet she herself couldn't help but see first and foremost naked women in these.

Certainly not the kind of picture she would hang on the walls of her tavern, lest people be totally mistaken as to the nature of the business she was running!

The fact remained that Señorita Alacen, curvy, buxom and bordering chubby, with her broad hips, round thighs and fleshy buttocks, had reminded her of this Venus with rounded curves and generously proportioned shapes. Except that all these painters' women were blond and sometimes so pale-skinned that one might have believed them dead if not for some patches of rosy skin here and there.

Victoria could only welcome the fact that nightshirts were meant to be loose-fitting, otherwise she might have had some trouble slipping the one she had lent her onto the señorita... And to think that Don Diego had lifted and carried her in his arms – more than once! – as if she weighed no more than a feather! Victoria reflected that she had apparently underestimated his strength... But after all, even though he certainly wasn't the strongest of men, he was indeed a man all the same! Over time, gradually and by dint of seeing him do hardly anything but read, write and talk, she might have forgotten this...

And men were physically stronger than women, a fact she had to admit although it displeased her.

Another fact which she could do nothing about: men generally preferred women with generous shapes, rounded... cushiony... feminine curves, in a word. They often preferred that there be "matter to stroke"... to touch... to fondle… to feel... to embrace.

Perhaps... perhaps if she herself had been a bit more... substantial, perhaps then would she have managed to convince Zorro to share some more... contact with her than a few furtive kisses, perhaps would he have let her convince him to stay longer than a few minutes blowing through her kitchen or her bedroom... perhaps would he even have let go enough to agree to let her untie this mask she was starting to hate with all her might?

Perhaps, despite her black knight's repeated assurances, was she not appealing enough in his eyes?

Well, not to the point of ever succeeding in driving him out of his mind anyway, she regretted with a hint of bitterness.

And it wouldn't get any better over time, she reflected. Hopefully, however, Zorro would finally make up his mind and dare to take that step before her posterior becomes completely flabby, her breasts reaches her navel, the skin of her face withers completely, her back becomes stooped and therefore she became even smaller than she already was, and above all before rheumatism seized them both!