The slender cypresses, the tall
pines with their straight trunks, formed a thick colonnade, a lattice
through which the sunlight flitted, a false unearthly light, that
striped the ground with bands of gold and bars of shadow.
The painter praised the spot enthusiastically. It was the only corner
for artists that could be found in Madrid. It was there that the great
Don Francisco had worked. It seemed as though at some turn in the path
they would run into Goya, sitting before his easel, scowling
ill-naturedly at some dainty duchess who was serving as his model.
Modern clothes seemed out of keeping with this background. Renovales
declared that the correct apparel for such a landscape was a bright
coat, a powdered wig, silk stockings, walking beside a Directoire gown.
The countess smiled as she listened to the painter. She looked about
with great curiosity; that was not a bad walk; she guessed it was the
first time she ever saw it. Very pretty! But she was not fond of the
country.
To her mind the best landscape was the silks of a drawing room and, as
for trees, she preferred the scenery at the Opera to the accompaniment
of music.
"The country bores me, master. It makes me so sad. If you leave Nature
alone to itself it is very commonplace."
They entered a little square in the center of which was a pool, on the
level of the ground, with stone posts that marked where there had once
been a railing. The water, swollen by the melting snow, was overflowing
the stone curb, and reached out in a thin sheet as it started down hill.
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