Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 17, 2025
She hated Concha as she did all the women who entered his studio. But this impression of sadness did not last very long in the painter; he was used to his wife's susceptibility. Besides, the consciousness of his faithfulness calmed him. His conscience was clean, and Josephina might believe what she would.
Cotoner lied compassionately. Yes, it was she, at last he saw her well enough. She, but more beautiful than in life. Josephina had never looked like that. Now it was Renovales who looked with surprise and pity. Poor Cotoner! Unhappy failure pariah of art, who could not rise above the nameless crowd and whose only feeling was in his stomach! What did he know about such things?
The Torrealta widow contributed to this by her constant chatter among her acquaintances about the high position her daughter occupied in Rome. According to her, Mariano was making millions; Josephina was reported to be a great friend of the Pope, her house was full of Cardinals and if the Pope did not visit her it was only because the poor thing was a prisoner in the Vatican.
She began her weeping again in the darkness. She sobbed convulsively, tossing the clothes with the heaving of her breast. His anger made him insensible and hard. "Groan, you poor wretch," he thought with a sort of relish. "Weep till you ruin yourself. I won't be the one to say a word." Josephina, tired out by his silence, interjected words amid her sobs. People made fun of her.
Renovales was walking about with ceaseless protests. "Why, what nonsense you are talking! You are raving! I have always loved you, Josephina. I love you now." Her eyes suddenly became hard. A flash of anger crossed their pupils. "Stop; don't lie. I know of a pile of letters that you have in your studio, hidden behind the books in your library. I have read them one by one.
If by chance one of them did come up to her, attracted by her pale beauty, it was only to whisper to her shameful suggestions while they danced; to propose uncompromising engagements, friendly relations with a prudence modeled on the English, flirtations that had no result. Renovales did not realize how his friendship with Josephina began.
She loved her mother, but her affection was cold in comparison with the ardent passion she felt for him that vague, instinctive preference girls feel for their fathers and which is, as it were, a forecast of the worship the man they love will later inspire in them. For a moment he thought of looking for Josephina to console her, but after a brief reflection, he gave up the idea.
With a sudden curiosity before going to the studio, he entered the parlor where Josephina received her callers. There, in the place of honor, he saw a large portrait of his wife, painted in Rome, a dainty woman with a lace mantilla, a black ruffled skirt and, in her hand, a tortoise-shell fan a veritable Goya.
He gazed for a moment at that attractive face, shaded by the black lace, its oriental eyes in sharp contrast to its aristocratic pallor. How beautiful Josephina was in those days! He opened the windows the better to see the portrait and the light fell on the dark red walls making the frames of other smaller pictures flash. Then the painter saw that the Goyesque picture was not the only one.
She was the one who had charge; no one was hindering her. Have the marriage as soon as possible? He was a mere cipher, and there was no reason for asking his advice. But steady, shucks! He had to work; he had to go out. And when he saw Josephina leaving the studio to weep somewhere else, he gave a snort of satisfaction, glad to have escaped from this difficult scene so successfully.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking