Then a group of school boys that
left behind them, as their cassocks fluttered, that odor of healthy,
dirty flesh that is peculiar to barracks and convents. And still the
countess did not come!
The painter went again to rest his elbows on the balustrade of the
belvedere. He would only wait a half an hour longer. The afternoon was
wearing away; the sun was still high, but from time to time the
landscape was darkened. The clouds that had been confined on the horizon
had been let loose and they were rolling through the field of the sky
like a flock of sheep, assuming fantastic shapes, rushing eagerly in
tumultuous confusion as if they wished to swallow the ball of fire that
was slipping slowly over a bit of clear blue sky.
Suddenly, Renovales felt a sort of shock near his heart. No one had
touched him; it was a warning of his nerves that for some time had been
especially irritable. She was near, was coming he was sure. And turning
around, he saw her, still a long way off, coming down the avenue, in
black with a fur coat, her hands in a little muff and a veil over her
eyes. Her tall, graceful silhouette was outlined against the yellow
ground as she passed the trees. Her carriage was returning up the hill,
perhaps to wait for her at the top near the School of Agriculture.
As she met him in the center of the square she held out her gloved hand,
warm from the muff, and they turned toward the belvedere, chatting.
"I'm in a furious mood, disgusted to death.
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