er father,
her brother. To whom could she tell her troubles if not to him? And
taking courage at the painter's silence who finally was moved by her
tears, she recovered her boldness and expressed her wish. He must go to
Monteverde, give him a good, heart-to-heart lecture, so that he would be
good and not make her suffer. The doctor respected him highly; he was
one of his greatest admirers; she was certain that a few words of the
master would be enough to bring him back like a lamb. He must show him
that she was not alone, that she had some one to defend her, that no one
could make sport of her with impunity.

But before she finished her request, the painter was walking around the
bed waving his arms, cursing in the violence of his excitement.

"That's the last straw! One of these days you'll be asking me to shine
his boots. Are you mad, woman? What are you thinking of? You have enough
accommodating people already in the count. Don't drag me into it!"

But she rolled over in bed, weeping disconsolately. She had no friends
left! The master was like the others; if he would not accede to her
requests, their friendship was over. All talk, oaths, and then not the
least sacrifice!

Suddenly she sat up, frowning angrily with the coldness of an offended
queen. She knew him at last, she had made a mistake in counting on him.
And as Renovales, confused at her anger, tried to offer excuse, she
interrupted him haughtily.

"Will you, or will you not? One, two----"

Yes, he would do what she wanted; he had sunk so low that it did not
matter if he went a little farther. He would lecture the doctor,
throwing in his face his stupidity in scorning such happiness,--he said
this with all his heart, his voice trembling with envy. What else did
his fair despot want? She might ask without fear. If it was necessary he
would challenge the count, with all his decorations, to single combat
and would kill him so that she might be free to join her little doctor.

"You joker," cried Concha, smiling at her triumph. "You are as nice as
can be but you are very perverse. Come here, you horrid man."

And lifting a lock of his heavy hair with her hand, she kissed him on
the forehead, laughing at the start the painter gave at her caress. He
felt his legs trembling, then his arms strove to embrace the warm,
scented body, that seemed to slip from him in its delicate covering.

"It was on the forehead," cried Concha in protest. "A sister's caress,
Ma