to leave for Rome with Josephina as soon as
the marriage was celebrated. He had made all the arrangements for his
new life there, investing in it all the money he had received from the
State for his picture and the product of several pictures for the Senate
for which he received commissions through his illustrious
relative-to-be.

A friend in Rome (the jolly Cotoner) had hired for him an apartment in
the Via Margutta and had furnished it in accordance with his artistic
taste. Dona Emilia would remain in Madrid with one of her sons, who had
been promoted to a position in the Foreign Office. Everybody, even the
mother, was in the young couple's way. And Dona Emilia wiped away an
invisible tear with the tip of her glove. Besides, she did not care to
go back to the countries where she had been _somebody_; she preferred to
stay in Madrid; there people knew her at least.

The wedding was an event. Not a soul in the huge family was absent; all
feared the annoying questions of the illustrious widow who kept a list
of relatives to the sixth remove.

Senor Anton arrived two days before, in a new suit with knee-breeches
and a broad plush hat, looking somewhat confused at the smiles of those
people who regarded him as a quaint type. Crestfallen and trembling in
the presence of the two women, with a countryman's respect, he called
his daughter-in-law "Senorita."

"No, papa, call me 'daughter.' Say Josephina to me."

But in spite of Josephina's simplicity and the tender gratitude he felt
when he saw her look at his son with such loving eyes, he did not
venture to take the liberty of speaking to her as his child and made the
greatest efforts to avoid this danger, always speaking to her in the
third person.

Dona Emilia, with her gold glasses and her majestic bearing, caused him
even greater emotion. He always called her "Senora marquesa," for in his
simplicity he could not admit that that lady was not at least a
marchioness. The widow, somewhat disarmed by the good man's homage,
admitted that he was a "rube" of some natural talent, a fact that made
her tolerate the ridiculous note of his knee breeches.

In the chapel of the Marquis of Tarfe's palace, after looking
dumbfounded at the great throng of nobility that had gathered for his
son's wedding, the old man, standing in the doorway, began to cry:

"Now I can die, O Lord. Now I can die!"

And he repeated his sad desire, without noticing the laughter of the
servants, as if