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Updated: June 9, 2025
"Look at her closely. Who does she look like? Who does she remind you of?" Cotoner answered with a grunt of indifference. She probably looked like her mother. What did he care about such resemblances. But his astonishment aroused him from his quiet when he heard Renovales say he thought her a rare likeness of his wife, and was indignant at him because he did not recognize it.
Mamma was talking with her; she was amusing her with the hope of a trip in the near future, and all at once a hoarse sound, her head bent forward before it fell onto her shoulder a moment nothing just like a little bird. Renovales ran to the bedroom, bumping into his friend Cotoner who came out of the dining-room, running too.
What could you do with such ignorant, commonplace people! And some wretches were still talking about the rights of man and revolutions! Cotoner, who expended incredible care in keeping his single suit presentable for calls and dinners, questioned López de Sosa with astonishment in regard to the progress of his wardrobe. "How many ties have you now, Rafael?" "About seven hundred."
"Not that," interrupted the master. "I want to know if you thought she was beautiful, if she really was beautiful." "Why, man, yes," said Cotoner resolutely. "She was beautiful or, rather, attractive. At the end she seemed a bit changed. Her illness! But all in all, an angel." And the master, calmed by these words, stood looking at his own works.
At the end of the afternoon, several of his friends used to gather in his studio, among them the jolly Cotoner who had moved to Madrid. When the twilight crept in through the huge window and made them all prone to friendly confidences, Renovales always made the same statement.
This systematic villification of the people completely neutralized the effect of the measures adopted from time to time by progressist governors, such as the Count of Mirasol, Norzagaray, Cotoner, and Pavia, and not even the revolution of September, 1868, materially affected the disgraceful condition of affairs in the island.
One morning the painter sent an urgent summons to Cotoner and the latter arrived in great alarm at the terms of the message. "It's nothing serious," said Renovales. "I want you to tell me where Josephina was buried. I want to see her."
An immense success which would enrage many artists who were eager to get a foothold in high society. A few days before the function, Cotoner handed him a bundle of papers. It was a copy of the speech, in a fair hand; it was already paid for.
Then the drowsiness of digestion seized him, as it did Cotoner, and he submitted to the bliss of short naps, the happiness of doing nothing. His daughter all the family he had would receive more than she expected at his death. He had worked enough. Painting, like all the arts, was a pretty deceit, for the advancement of which men strove as if they were mad, until they hated it like death.
The swish of silk on the floor sounded in the hall, and the servants ran back and forth, receiving wraps and putting numbers on them, as at the theater, to stow them away in the parlor that had been converted into a coat-room. Cotoner directed the servants, smooth shaven or wearing side-whiskers, and clad in faded dress-suits.
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