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Never in my life will I be able to do anything like it again. We won't destroy it, will we, little girl?" The little girl remained silent for a good while with her gaze fixed on the picture. Renovales' eager eyes saw a cloud slowly rise over her face, like a shadow on a white wall. The painter felt as though the floor were sinking under his feet; the storm was coming.
You idiot," muttered his friend, losing all respect for him. Good Cotoner refused to go with him after that. In vain Renovales talked to him enthusiastically every night about that girl, deeply impressed by her different impersonations.
But he had hardly been absent two days when Marie, the Countess's French maid, appeared with the scented letter, or it arrived in the mail, where it stood out scandalously among the other envelopes of the master's correspondence. "Curse that woman!" exclaimed Renovales, hastening to hide the showy note. "What a lack of prudence. One of these fine days, Josephina will discover these letters."
Cotoner had desired to bury Josephina beside her mother in the same inclosure where the stone that covered the "lamented genius of diplomacy" was growing tarnished. He wanted her to rest among her own. On the way, Renovales felt a sort of anguish.
The ladies at whose houses he dined spoke ill of the Alberca woman, but perhaps it was merely woman's gossip. There was a moment of silence and Renovales, as if he wanted to change the subject of conversation, turned to Soldevilla. "And you, aren't you painting any longer? I always find you here in working hours."
Really, papa, this is very important. Good-by; I shall expect you to-morrow." And she disappeared, leaving in her father some of the merriment with which they had chased each other. The twilight was gloomy. Renovales sat in front of his wife's portrait, gazing at that extravagantly beautiful head which seemed to him the most faithful of his portraits.
He felt attracted by her mad jesting, by her almost childish levity, and at the same time he hated her for the pitying air with which she treated him. For her he was a good fellow, but very commonplace, who by some rare caprice of Nature possessed the gift of painting well. Renovales returned this scorn by insulting her mentally. That Countess of Alberca was a fine one.
They had had a very pleasant luncheon; mamma had laughed at Cotoner's jokes, who was always in good humor, but during the dessert, when Soldevilla, Renovales' favorite pupil, came, she had felt indisposed and had disappeared to hide her eyes swimming with tears and her breast that heaved with sobs.
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.
Then he ended the afternoon at the Albercas', where he often stayed till midnight. He dined there almost every day. The count, accustomed to his society, seemed as eager to see him as his wife. He spoke enthusiastically of the portrait which Renovales was painting of him to go with Concha's.
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