ts and lotus flowers; they
stretched it over the goddess's head, so that it covered her down to her
feet and there it stood, like a mystery, a riddle for the guests.

They were beginning to arrive. Outside of the house, at the fence
sounded the stamping of the horses, the slam of doors as they closed. In
the distance rumbled other carriages, drawing nearer every minute. The
swish of silk on the floor sounded in the hall, and the servants ran
back and forth, receiving wraps and putting numbers on them, as at the
theater, to stow them away in the parlor that had been converted into a
coat-room. Cotoner directed the servants, smooth shaven or wearing
side-whiskers, and clad in faded dress-suits. Renovales meanwhile was
wreathed in smiles, bowing graciously, greeting the ladies who came in
their black or white mantillas, grasping the hands of the men, some of
whom wore brilliant uniforms.

The master felt elated at this procession which ceremoniously passed
through his drawing-rooms and studios. In his ears, the swish of skirts,
the movement of fans, the greetings, the praise of his good taste
sounded like caressing music. Everyone came with the same satisfaction
in seeing and being seen, which people reveal on a first night at the
theater or at some brilliant reception. Good music, presence of the
Nuncio, preparations for the luncheon which they seemed to sniff
already, and besides, the certainty of seeing their names in print the
next day, perhaps of having their picture in some illustrated magazine.
Emilia Renovales' wedding was an event.

Among the crowd of people that continued to pour in were seen several
young men, hastily holding up their cameras. They were going to have
snap-shots! Those who retained some bitterness against the artist,
remembering how dearly they had paid him for a portrait, now pardoned
him generously and excused his robbery. There was an artist that lived
like a gentleman! And Renovales went from one side to another, shaking
hands, bowing, talking incoherently, not knowing in which direction to
turn. For a moment, while he stood in the hall, he saw a bit of sunlit
garden, covered with flowers and beyond a fence a black mass: the
admiring, smiling throng. He breathed the odor of roses and subtle
perfumes, and felt the rapture of optimism flood his breast. Life was a
great thing. The poor rabble, crowded together outside, made him recall
with pride the blacksmith's son. Heavens, how he had risen!