He had sold his brush for a year to one of those Jewish
dealers who exported paintings at so much a picture, and under agreement
not to paint for any other dealer. Renovales worked from morning till
night changing subjects when it was demanded by what he called his
_impresario_. "Enough _ciociari_, now for some Moors." Afterwards the
Moors lost their market-value and the turn of the musketeers came,
fencing a valiant duel; then pink shepherdesses in the style of Watteau
or ladies in powdered wigs embarking in a golden gondola to the sound of
lutes. To give freshness to his stock, he would interpolate a sacristy
scene with much show of embroidered chasubles and golden incensaries, or
an occasional bacchanalian, imitating from memory, without models,
Titians' voluptuous forms and amber flesh. When the list was ended, the
_ciociari_ were once more in style and could be begun again. The
painter with his extraordinary facility of execution produced two or
three pictures a week, and the _impresario_, to encourage him in his
work, often visited him afternoons, following the movements of his brush
with the enthusiasm of a man who appreciated art at so much a foot and
so much an hour. The news he brought was of a sort to infuse new zest.

The last bacchanal painted by Renovales was in a fashionable bar in New
York. His pageant of the Abruzzi was in one of the noblest castles in
Russia. Another picture, representing a dance of countesses disguised as
shepherdesses in a field of violets, was in the possession of a Jewish
baron, a banker in Frankfort. The dealer rubbed his hands, as he spoke
to the painter with a patronizing air. His name was becoming famous,
thanks to him, and he would not step until he had won him a world-wide
reputation. Already his agents were asking him to send nothing but the
works of Signor Renovales, for they were the best sellers. But Mariano
answered him with a sudden outburst of bitterness. All those canvases
were mere rot. If that was art, he would prefer to break stone on the
high roads.

But his rebellion against this debasement of his art disappeared when he
saw his Josephina in the house whose ornamentation he was constantly
improving, converting it into a jewel case worthy of his love. She was
happy in her home, with a splendid carriage in which to drive every
afternoon and perfect freedom to spend money on her clothes and jewelry.
Renovales' wife lacked nothing; she had-at her disposal, as adviser