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Updated: July 11, 2025
The noble Count of Alberca was unceasing in his sympathy. Poor friend! Deprived of his companion! And by his expression he shared the horror he felt at the possibility of being left a widower, without that wife who made him so happy. At the beginning of winter Renovales returned to his house.
They must wait: Nature has surprises. But afterward, with sudden decision, he pretended that he wanted to write a prescription, in order that he might talk with the husband alone in his working studio. "To tell you the truth, Renovales, this pitiful comedy is getting tiresome. It may be all right for the others but you are a man.
Seeing Renovales, he rose hastily, leaving his palette on the piece of oil-cloth that protected the floor from spots of paint. Dear master! How thankful he was to him for this visit! And he showed him the copy, minutely accurate but without the wonderful atmosphere, without the miraculous realism of the original.
Under irreverent trimmings, every week his hair became shorter, his beard diminished until only a light remnant remained of that tangled growth that gave him such a ferocious appearance. He did not want to look like other men, he must preserve the exterior that stamped him as an artist, so that people might not pass by the great Renovales without recognizing him.
The little woman, in spite of the weakness that kept her motionless in bed, wept and cried almost as she had in the crises that had so terrified Renovales. "I won't have it," she said with that obstinacy that made her so terrible. "I won't have a strange woman's milk for my daughter. I will nurse her, her mother." And they had to give the baby to her.
He had come back fatter and merrier, with a greasy, priestly luster. According to Renovales he had brought back all the health of the clerics. The bishop's table with its succulent abundance was a sweet memory for Cotoner. He extolled it and described it, praising those good gentlemen who, like himself, lived free from passion with no other voluptuousness in life than a refined appetite.
He owed his thanks to López de Sosa for taking them outdoors on these dizzy rides from which Josephina returned greatly quieted. Renovales preferred his pupil. He was almost his son, he had fought many a hard battle to give him fellowships and prizes.
It did not seem possible that her poor daughter could live after giving birth to "that." They could not complain that she was not healthy; she was as ruddy as a country baby. "She's a Renovales; she's yours, wholly yours, Mariano. We belong to a different class."
The invalid was silent, exhausted by such an effort; she relapsed into that lethargy which for her took the place of rest. Renovales, after this conversation, felt his vile inferiority beside his wife. She knew everything and forgave him. She had followed the course of his love, letter by letter, look by look, seeing in his smiles the memory of his faithlessness. And she was silent!
In the midst of one of these confidential talks, she stopped and said with a shy expression and an ironical accent: "But I am probably shocking you, Mariano. You, who are a good husband, a staunch family-man." Renovales felt tempted to choke her. She was making fun of him; she looked on him as a man different from the rest of men, a sort of monk of painting.
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