h,
master of his actions, he believed that he was the happiest being on
earth. His daughter had her husband, a family of her own; he saw himself
in welcome seclusion, without cares or duties, without any other ties
than the constant letters of Concha, which met him on his travels. Oh,
happy freedom!

He lived in Holland, studying its museums, which he had never seen:
then, with the caprice of a wandering bird, he went down to Italy where
he enjoyed several months of easy life, without any work, visiting
studios, receiving the honors due a famous master, in the same places
where once he had struggled, poor and unknown. Then he moved to Paris,
finally attracted by the countess, who was spending the summer at
Biarritz with her husband.

Concha's epistolary style grew more urgent. She had numerous objections
to a prolongation of the period of their separation. He must come back;
he had traveled enough. She could not stand it without seeing him; she
loved him; she could not live without him. Besides, as a last resource,
she spoke to him of her husband, the count, who, in his eternal
blindness, joined in his wife's requests asking her to invite the artist
to spend a while at their house in Biarritz. The poor painter must be
very sad in his bereavement and the kindly nobleman insisted on
consoling him in his loneliness. In his house, they would divert him;
they would be a new family for him.

The painter lived for a great part of the summer and all the autumn in
the welcome atmosphere of that home which seemed created for him. The
servants respected him, seeing in him the true master. The countess,
delirious after his long absence, was so reckless that the artist had to
restrain her, urging her to be prudent. The noble Count of Alberca was
unceasing in his sympathy. Poor friend! Deprived of his companion! And
by his expression he shared the horror he felt at the possibility of
being left a widower, without that wife who made him so happy.

At the beginning of winter Renovales returned to his house. He did not
experience the slightest emotion on entering the three great studios, on
passing through those rooms, which seemed more icy, larger, more hollow,
now that they were stirred by no other steps than his own. He could not
believe that a year had passed. All was the same as if he had been
absent for only a few days. Cotoner had taken good care of the house,
setting to work the concierge and his wife and the old servant who