Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 9, 2025
When the master saw him so serious and silent that afternoon after luncheon he wanted to know what was worrying him. Had they complained of his restoration? Was his money gone? Cotoner shook his head. It was not his affairs; he was worrying over Josephina's condition. Had he not noticed her? Renovales shrugged his shoulders.
Cotoner accepted the master's new habits indulgently. Poor fellow! "You are putting into action the pictures of 'The Rake's Progress," he said to his friend. "You're going the way of all virtuous men when they cease to be so, on the verge of old age. You are making a fool of yourself, Mariano." But his loyalty led him to acquiesce in the new life of the master.
Renovales began to bristle again, as if these words cut him. "Nonsense! lies, calumnies!" he said angrily. "Inventions of some young fellows who spread these disgraceful reports because they were rejected." Cotoner began to explain away what he had said. He did not know anything, he had heard it.
He did not find in this linen that perfume of the closets which had disturbed him so deeply; but there was something in them, the illusion, the certainty that she had many a time touched them. After soberly and severely telling Cotoner of his wish, Renovales felt that he must offer some excuse. It was disgraceful that he did not know where Josephina was; that he had not yet gone to visit her.
Its pagan beauty in its dazzling whiteness seemed to challenge the deathly yellow of the religious objects that filled the other end of the studio. Accustomed to see it, the two artists had passed in front of it several times without noticing its nakedness that seemed more insolent and triumphant now that the studio was converted into an oratory. Cotoner began to laugh.
Poor Tekli was a professor; his copy of Velásquez amounted to nothing more than the work of a patient cart horse in art. "Do you think so?" asked Cotoner doubtfully. "Is his work so poor?"
She has been a great woman." Renovales appeared offended at this comment. "She is," he said with a sort of hostility. "She is still." Cotoner could not argue with his idol and he hastened to correct himself. "She is a charming woman, very attractive, yes sir, and very stylish. They say she is talented and cannot bear to let men who worship her suffer. She has certainly enjoyed life."
He turned his steps towards the last studio, the only one that deserved the name, for it was there he worked, and he saw Cotoner sitting in a huge armchair, the seat of which sagged under his corpulent frame, with his elbows resting on the oaken arms, his waistcoat unbuttoned to relieve his well-filled paunch, his head sunk between his shoulders, his face red and sweating, his eyes half closed with the sweet joy of digestion in that comfortable atmosphere heated by a huge stove.
"If you paint beautiful women, like the countess, it is merely for the sake of painting them and not that you would think of seeing in them anything more than a model." "Aha! So my wife has been talking to you about that!" Cotoner hastened to set his mind at ease, fearing his digestion might be disturbed.
Cotoner hummed a tune, pretending to be thinking of something else; López de Sosa began to look for a piece of music on the piano, talking about it to change the subject. He too seemed to be aware of the matter. "She doesn't come because she doesn't have to come," said Josephina from her corner. "Your father manages to see her every day, so that she won't forget us."
Word Of The Day
Others Looking