left his feet uncovered.

He passed through the vestibule and opened the first glass door.
Instantly the noises of the world outside ceased; the rattling of the
carriages in the Prado; the bells of the street-cars, the dull rumble of
the carts, the shrill cries of the children who were running about on
the slopes. He opened the second door, and his face, swollen by the
cold, felt the caress of warm air, buzzing with the vague hum of
silence. The footfalls of the visitors reverberated in the manner
peculiar to large, unoccupied buildings. The slam of the door, as it
closed, resounded like a cannon shot, passing from hall to hall through
the heavy curtains. From the gratings of the registers poured the
invisible breath of the furnaces. The people, on entering, spoke in a
low tone, as if they were in a cathedral; their faces assumed an
expression of unnatural seriousness, as though they were intimidated by
the thousands of canvases that lined the walls, by the enormous busts
that decorated the circle of the rotunda and the middle of the central
salon.

On seeing Renovales, the two door-keepers, in their long frock-coats,
started to their feet. They did not know who he was, but he certainly
was somebody. They had often seen that face, perhaps in the newspapers,
perhaps on match-boxes. It was associated in their minds with the glory
of popularity, with the high honors reserved for people of distinction.
Presently they recognized him. It was so many years since they had seen
him there! And the two attendants, with their caps covered with
gold-braid in their hands and with an obsequious smile, came forward
towards the great artist.

"Good morning, Don Mariano. Did Senor de Renovales wish something? Did
he want them to call the curator?" They spoke with oily obsequiousness,
with the confusion of courtiers who see a foreign sovereign suddenly
enter their palace, recognizing him through his disguise.

Renovales rid himself of them with a brusque gesture and cast a glance
over the large decorative canvases of the rotunda, that recalled the
wars of the 17th century; generals with bristling mustaches and plumed
slouch-hat, directing the battle with a short baton, as though they were
directing an orchestra, troops of arquebusiers disappearing downhill
with banners of red and blue crosses at their front, forests of pikes
rising from the smoke, green meadows of Flanders in the
backgrounds--thundering, fruitless combats that were al