The master made his way toward the Hall of Velasquez. It was there that
his friend Tekli was working. His visit to the Museo had no other object
than to see the copy that the Hungarian painter was making of the
picture of _Las Meninas_.

The day before, when the foreigner was announced in his studio, he had
remained perplexed for a long while, looking at the name on the card.
Tekli! And then all at once he remembered a friend of twenty years
before, when he lived in Rome; a good-natured Hungarian, who admired him
sincerely and who made up for his lack of genius with a silent
persistency in his work, like a beast of burden.

Renovales was glad to see his little blue eyes, hidden under his thin,
silky eyebrows, his jaw, protruding like a shovel, a feature that made
him look very much like the Austrian monarchs--his tall frame that bent
forward under the impulse of excitement, while he stretched out his bony
arms, long as tentacles, and greeted him in Italian:

"Oh, _maestro, caro maestro!_"

He had taken refuge in a professorship, like all artists who lack the
power to continue the upward climb, who fall in the rut. Renovales
recognized the artist-official in his spotless suit, dark and proper, in
his dignified glance that rested from time to time on his shining boots
that seemed to reflect the whole studio. He even wore on one lapel of
his coat the variegated button of some mysterious decoration. The felt
hat, white as meringue, which he held in his hand, was the only
discordant feature in this general effect of a public functionary.
Renovales caught his hands with sincere enthusiasm. The famous Tekli!
How glad he was to see him! What times they used to have in Rome! And
with a smile of kindly superiority he listened to the story of his
success. He was a professor in Budapest; every year he saved money in
order to go and study in some celebrated European museum. At last he had
succeeded in coming to Spain, fulfilling the desire he had cherished for
many years.

"_Oh, Velasquez! uel maestro, caro Mariano!_"

And throwing back his head, with a dreamy expression in his eyes, he
moved his protruding jaw covered with reddish hair, with a voluptuous
look, as though he were sipping a glass of his sweet native Tokay.

He had been in Madrid for a month, working every morning in the Museo.
His copy of _Las Meninas_ was almost finished. He had not been to see
his "Dear Mariano" sooner because he wanted to show him this work