She praised the various parts of her beauty with
frank immodesty. Dazzled by the beauty of her body she did not notice
the face, that seemed unimportant, lost in soft veils. When her eyes
fell on it she showed a sort of disappointment.
"It doesn't look much like me! It isn't my face!"
The artist smiled. It was not she; he had tried to disguise her face,
nothing but her face. It was a mask, a concession to social conventions.
As it was, no one would recognize her and his work, his great work,
might appear and receive the admiration of the world.
"Because, we aren't going to destroy it," Renovales continued with a
tremble in his voice, "that would be a crime. 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. Josephina
turned pale, two tears slipped slowly down her cheeks, two others took
their places to fall with them and then more and more.
"I won't! I won't!"
It was the same hoarse, nervous, despotic cry that had set his hair on
end with anxiety and fear that night in Rome. The little woman looked
with hatred at the naked body that radiated its pearly light from the
depths of the canvas. She seemed to feel the terror of a sleep-walker
who suddenly awakens in the midst of a square surrounded by a thousand
curious, eager eyes and in her fright does not know what to do nor where
to flee.
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