"Concha wants a portrait done by you, and I like to please her in every
way. You can say when to begin. She is afraid to propose it to you and
has commissioned me to do it. I know that your work is better than that
of other painters. Paint her well, so that she may be pleased."
And noticing that Renovales seemed rather offended at his patronizing
familiarity, he added as if he were doing him another favor.
"If you have success with Concha, you may paint my picture afterward. I
am only waiting for the Grand Chrysanthemum of Japan. At the Government
offices they tell me the titles will come one of these days."
Renovales began the countess's portrait. The task was prolonged by that
rattle-brained woman who always came late, alleging that she had been
busy. Many days the artist did not take a stroke with his brush; they
spent the time chatting. At other times the master listened in silence
while she with her ceaseless volubility made fun of her friends and
related their secret defects, their most intimate habits, their
mysterious amours, with a kind of relish, as if all women were her
enemies. 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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