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Updated: September 11, 2025
Papa, help me out of this difficulty, it's only two thousand pesetas. With that I can get on my feet and then I won't bother you with any more loans. Come, that's a dear papa. I need them right away, because I waited till the last minute, so as not to inconvenience you." Renovales moved about uneasily under the weight of his daughter, a strapping girl who fell on him like a child.
He piled up by handfuls the clay of the past, the mass of memory, to make it greater that it might occupy the whole way, shut off the horizon like a huge hill, hide till the last moment the murky abyss which ended the journey. Renovales' behavior was a source of surprise and even scandal for all his friends.
And after fixing her little teeth gently in one of the master's cheeks, she ran out, followed by Miss, who was already puffing in anticipation at the thought of the tiresome walk. Renovales remained motionless as if he hesitated to shake off the atmosphere of affection in which his daughter enveloped him. Milita was his, wholly his.
He did not find in this linen that perfume of the closets which had disturbed him so deeply; but there was something in them, the illusion, the certainty that she had many a time touched them. After soberly and severely telling Cotoner of his wish, Renovales felt that he must offer some excuse. It was disgraceful that he did not know where Josephina was; that he had not yet gone to visit her.
She knew these interviews which begin hesitatingly and end in rough familiarity. She looked around with a professional smile, eager to end the unpleasant situation as soon as possible. "When you will. Where shall I undress?" Renovales started at the sound of her voice, as if he had forgotten that that image could speak.
Their friend Cotoner said "Good-by," he was sorry to part from them but his place was in Rome. The Pope was ailing just at that time and the painter, in the hope of his death, was preparing canvases of all sizes, striving to guess who would be his successor. As he went back in his memories, Renovales always thought of his life in Venice with a sort of pleasant homesickness.
Cotoner had taken good care of the house, setting to work the concierge and his wife and the old servant who had charge of cleaning the studios, the only servants that Renovales had kept. There was no dust, none of the close atmosphere of a house that has long been closed. Everything appeared bright and clean, as if life had not been interrupted in that house.
She continued to weep and Renovales looked at her as if she were another woman. She seemed ridiculous to him in that grief, which distorted her face, which made her ugly, destroying her smiling, doll-like impassibility. He tried to offer excuses, that he might not seem cruel by keeping silent, but they lacked warmth and the desire to carry conviction.
Renovales drew back, stirred by his own work, bewildered, feeling his temples throbbing, fancying that the pictures and furniture were whirling about him. Poor "Fregolina"! What a delightful clown!
The cemetery was a hideous, gloomy, repulsive place, with an odor of decay. Renovales thought he could perceive a stench of putrefaction scattered in the wind which bent the pointed tops of the cypresses, and swayed the old wreaths and the branches of the rose bushes. He looked at Cotoner with a sort of displeasure. He was to blame for his coldness.
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