d to Renovales with a distracted air, as he
explained this innovation. He was painting a bacchanal and it was
impossible for him to proceed without a model. It was a case of
necessity, flesh could not be done from memory. The model, at ease
before the painter, felt ashamed of her nakedness in the presence of
that fashionable lady, and after wrapping herself up in the furs, hid
behind a screen and hastily dressed herself.

Renovales recovered his serenity when he reached home, seeing that his
wife received him with her customary eagerness, as if she had forgotten
her displeasure of the afternoon. She laughed at Cotoner's stories;
after dinner they went to the theater and when bedtime came, the painter
had forgotten about the surprise in the studio. He was falling asleep
when he was alarmed by a painful, prolonged sigh, as if some one were
stifling beside him. When he lit the light he saw Josephina with both
fists in her eyes, crying, her breast heaving with sobs, and kicking in
a childish fit of temper till the bed-clothes were rolled in a ball and
the exquisite puff fell to the floor.

"I won't, I won't," she moaned with an accent of protest.

The painter had jumped out of bed, full of anxiety, going from one side
to the other without knowing what to do, trying to pull her hands away
from her eyes, giving in, in spite of his strength, to Josephina's
efforts to free herself from him.

"But what's the matter? What is it you won't do? What's happened to
you?"

And she continued to cry, tossing about in the bed, kicking in a nervous
fury.

"Let me alone! I don't like you; don't touch me. I won't let you, no,
sir, I won't let you. I'm going away. I'm going home to my mother."

Renovales, terrified at the fury of the little woman who was always so
gentle, did not know what to do to calm her. He ran through the bedroom
and the adjoining dressing room in his night shirt, that showed his
athletic muscles; he offered her water, going so far as to pick up the
bottles of perfumes in his confusion as if they could serve him as
sedatives, and finally he knelt down, trying to kiss the clenched little
hands that thrust him away, catching at his hair and beard.

"Let me alone. I tell you to let me alone. I know you don't love me. I'm
going away."

The painter was surprised and afraid of the nervousness in this beloved
little doll; he did not dare to touch her for fear of hurting her. As
soon as the sun rose she would leave th