began to feel tired of this possession.
When he finished reading these letters, he would always think the same
thing. "She is mad. What do I care about her secrets?"

A week passed without any news from Biarritz. The papers spoke of the
trip of the eminent Count of Alberca. He was already in Germany with all
his retinue, getting ready to put the noble lambskin around the princely
shoulders. Renovates smiled knowingly, without emotion, without envy, as
he thought of the countess's silence. She had a great deal to take up
her time, no doubt, since she was left alone.

Suddenly one afternoon he heard from her in the most unexpected manner.
He was going out of his house, just at sunset, to take a walk on the
heights of the Hippodrome along the Canalillo to view Madrid from the
hill, when at the gate a messenger boy in a red coat handed him a
letter. The painter started with surprise on recognizing Concha's
handwriting. Four hasty, excited lines. She had just arrived that
afternoon on the French express with her maid, Marie. She was alone at
home. "Come, hurry. Serious news. I am dying." And the master hurried,
though the announcement of her death did not make much impression on
him. It was probably some trifle. He was used to the countess's
exaggeration.

The spacious house of the Albercas was dark, dusty and echoing like all
deserted buildings. The only servant who remained was the concierge. His
children were playing beside the steps as if they did not know that the
lady of the house had returned. Upstairs the furniture was wrapped in
gray covers, the chandeliers were veiled with cheese-cloth, the house
and glass of the mirrors were dull and lifeless under the coating of
dust. Marie opened the door for him and led the way through the dark,
musty rooms, the windows closed, and the curtains down, without any
light except what came through the cracks.

In the reception hall he ran into several trunks, still unpacked,
dropped and forgotten in the haste of arrival.

At the end of this pilgrimage, almost feeling his way through the
deserted house, he saw a spot of light, the door of the countess's
bedroom, the only room that was alive, lighted up by the glow of the
setting sun. Concha was there beside the window, buried in a chair, her
brow contracted, her glance lost in the distance, her face tinged with
the orange of the dying light.

Seeing the painter she sprang to her feet, stretched out her arms and
ran toward him,