That too reminded the painter of the other.
It was she! She sat before his eyes in bodily form, with the perfume of
the form he loved.
From instinct, from habit, he took up his palette and a brush stained
with black, trying to trace the outlines of that figure. Ah, his hand
was old, heavy, trembling! Where had his old time skill fled, his
drawing, his striking qualities? Had he really ever painted? Was he
truly the painter Renovales? He had suddenly forgotten everything. His
head seemed empty, his hand paralyzed, the white canvas filled him with
a terror of the unknown. He did not know how to paint; he could not
paint. His efforts were useless; his mind was deadened. Perhaps,--some
other day. Now his ears hummed, his face was pale, his ears were red,
purple, as if they were on the point of dripping blood. In his mouth he
felt the torment of a deathly thirst.
The "Bella Fregolina" saw him throw down his palette and come toward her
with a wild expression.
But she felt no fear; she knew those distorted faces. This sudden rush
was no doubt part of the program; she was warned when she went there
after her friendly conversation with the son-in-law. That gentleman, so
serious and so imposing, was like all the men she knew, as brutal as the
rest.
She saw him come to her with open arms, take her in a close embrace,
fall at her feet with a hoarse cry, as if he were stifling; and she,
gently and sympathetically encouraged him, bending her head, offering
her lips with an automatic loving expression which was the implement of
her profession.
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