The
perfume of the past seemed to go with him; it had penetrated through all
the pores of his body. He fancied he felt the pressure of a pair of
distant, enormous arms, that came from the infinite. He was no longer
afraid to enter the chamber.
He groped his way, looking for one of the windows. When the shutters
creaked and the sunlight rushed in, the painter's eyes, after a moment
of blinking, saw, like a sweet, faint smile, the glow of the Venetian
furniture.
What a beautiful artistic chamber! After a year of absence, the painter
admired the great clothes-press with its three mirrors, deep and blue as
only the mirror-makers of Murano could make them and the ebony of the
furniture inlaid with tiny bits of pearl and bright jewels, a specimen
of the artistic genius of ancient Venice in contact with Oriental
peoples. This furniture had been for Renovales one of the great
undertakings of his youth; the whim of a lover, eager to bestow princely
honors on his companion after years of strict economy.
They had always had their luxurious bedroom wherever they were, even at
the time of their poverty. In those hard days when he painted in the
attic and Josephina did the cooking, they had no chairs, they ate from
the same plate; Milita played with rag-dolls; but in their miserable,
whitewashed alcove were piled up with sacred respect all that furniture
of the fair-haired wife of some Doge, like a hope for the future, a
promise of better times.
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