make sport of her, she spread the news. The
painter and the Torrealta girl were engaged. That was when the
interested parties discovered that they loved each other. It was
something more than friendship that made Renovales pass through
Josephina's street mornings, looking at the high windows in the hope of
seeing her dainty silhouette through the panes. One night at the
duchess' when they were left alone in the hallway, Renovales caught her
hand and lifted it to his lips, but so timidly that they scarcely
touched her glove. He was afraid after his rudeness, felt ashamed of his
violence; he thought he was hurting the delicate, slender girl; but she
let her hand stay in his, and at the same time bowed her head and began
to cry.

"How good you are, Mariano!"

She felt the most intense gratitude, when she realized that she was
loved for the first time; loved truly, by a man of some distinction, who
fled from the women of fortune to seek a humble, neglected girl like
her. All the treasures of affection which had been accumulating in the
isolation of her humiliating life overflowed. How she could love the man
who loved her, taking her out of that parasite's existence, lifting her
by his strength and affection to the level of those who scorned her!

The noble widow of Torrealta gave a cry of indignation when she learned
of the engagement of the painter and her daughter. "The blacksmith's
son!" "The illustrious diplomat of imperishable memory!" But as if this
protest of her pride opened her eyes, she thought of the years her
daughter had spent going from one drawing-room to another, without
anyone paying any attention to her. What dunces men were! She thought,
too, that a celebrated painter was a personage; she remembered the
articles devoted to Renovales because of his last picture, and, above
all, a thing that had the most effect on her, she knew by hearsay of the
great fortune that artists amassed abroad, the hundreds of thousands of
francs paid for a canvas that could be carried under your arm. Why might
not Renovales be one of the fortunate?

She began to annoy her countless relatives with requests for advice. The
girl had no father and they must take his place. Some answered
indifferently. "The painter! Hump! Not bad!" evidencing by their
coldness that it was all the same to them if she married a
tax-collector. Others insulted her unwittingly by showing their
approval. "Renovales? An artist with a great future before