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Updated: June 9, 2025
One morning Renovales called Cotoner to talk to him with wild expressions of joy. "She's going to come! She's going to come this very afternoon!" The old painter looked surprised. "Who?" "The 'Bella Fregolina. Pepita. My son-in-law tells me he has persuaded her. She will come this afternoon at three. He is coming with her himself." Then he cast a worried glance at his workshop.
The old painter seemed alarmed at Josephina's increasing delicacy, acute consumption that still found matter to destroy in her organism wasted by years of illness. The poor little woman coughed constantly and this cough, that was not dry but prolonged and violent, alarmed Cotoner. "The doctors ought to see her again." "The doctors!" exclaimed Renovales, "What's the use?
Cotoner, in the full bliss of digestion, strove with his jests to bring a faint smile to the face of the master's wife, but she stayed in the corner, shivering with cold. Renovales, in a smoking jacket, read the papers, soothed by the charming atmosphere of his quiet home. If the countess could only see him! One night the Alberca woman's name was mentioned in the drawing-room.
During the day he entrusted her to his faithful Cotoner who attended her like an old family servant, carrying her bundles when she went shopping, performing the duties of butler and sometimes of chef. Renovales had made his acquaintance when he came to Rome. He was his best friend.
Some of the bolder even went so far as to call him by his first name, treating him like a glorious failure, presuming to make comparisons between his paintings and what they would do when they could. "Mariano, art moves in different paths, now." "Aren't you ashamed of yourself!" Cotoner would exclaim. "You look like a schoolmaster surrounded by children. You ought to be spanked.
The painter felt closely attached to this little group; they were serious, religious and they ate well. Everyone called him "good Cotoner." The ladies smiled with gratitude when he presented them with a rosary or some other article of devotion brought from Rome. If they expressed the desire of obtaining some dispensation from the Vatican, he would offer to write to "his friend the cardinal."
Cotoner, who stood near the altar, in case Monsignor should need something, felt moved to tenderness by the music, by the sight of that distinguished gathering, by the dramatic gravity with which the Roman prelate conducted the ceremonies of his profession. Seeing Milita so fair, kneeling, with her eyes lowered under her snowy veil, the poor Bohemian blinked to keep back the tears.
Renovales had secured for him two honorable mentions at the Exhibitions and after this victory, shared with all the young chaps who were just beginning, Cotoner settled down in the rut, to rest forever, counting that the mission of his life was fulfilled. Life in Madrid was no more difficult for him than in Rome.
Early in the morning Renovales was hurrying about with two ribbons across his shirt front and a constellation of golden, flashing stars covering one whole side of his coat. Cotoner, too, had put on the insignia of his various Papal Orders. The master looked at himself in all the mirrors with considerable satisfaction, admiring equally his friend.
This portrait filled the artist with the melancholy which the memory of bitter days inspires in the midst of comfort. His gratitude toward his brave companion brought with it once more remorse. "Oh, Josephina! Josephina!" When Cotoner arrived, he found the master lying face down on the couch with his head in his hands, as if he were asleep.
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