He was a young man, as fair and
as fragile as a porcelain figure, a combination of such striking
beauties that his face was almost a caricature. His hair, parted in two
waves over his pale forehead, was black, very black and shining with
bluish reflections, his eyes, as soft as velvet, showed the read spot of
the lachrymal on the polished ivory of the cornea, veritable odalisque
eyes, his bright red lips showed under his bristly mustache, his
complexion was as pale as a camellia, and his teeth flashed like pearl.
Concha looked at him with ecstatic devotion, talked with her eyes on
him, consulting him with her glance, lamenting inwardly his lack of
mastery, eager to be his slave, to be corrected by him in all the
caprices of her giddy character.
Renovales scorned him, questioning his manhood, making the most
atrocious comments on him in his rough fashion.
He was a doctor of science and was waiting for a chair at Madrid to be
declared vacant, that he might become a candidate for it. The Countess
of Alberca had him under her high protection, talking about him
enthusiastically to all the important gentlemen who exercised any
influence in University circles. She would break out into the most
extravagant praise of the doctor in Renovales' presence. He was a
scholar and what made her admire him was the fact that all his learning
did not keep him from dressing well and being as fair as an angel.
"For pretty teeth, look at Monteverde's," she would say, looking at him
in the crowded room, through her lorgnette.
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