The house itself had a gentle‚ old-fashioned air: in the visiting room‚ which was only rarely used‚ the vast sofa and armchairs had the stiff appearance of the days of Dom José I‚ and the faded red damask upholstery was reminiscent of the grandeur of a decadent court; the dining room walls were hung with engravings depicting Napoleon’s first battles‚ all of which included a white horse standing on a hill towards which a hussar was galloping at breakneck speed‚ brandishing a sabre. Sebastião slept his dreamless seven hours’ sleep in an ancient bed made from carved blackwood; and in a dark little room‚ beneath the subtle sounds of mice scrabbling in the rafters‚ on a chest of drawers with gold metal handles‚ there stood‚ as he had for years‚ the patron saint of the house‚ St Sebastian‚ bristling with arrows and struggling against the cords that bound him to the tree trunk‚ and lit by an oil lamp carefully tended by Tia Joana.
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