d beauties, of forgotten memories, like the fragrance of
dried flowers. This odor came from the mass of clothes that hung there,
white, black, pink and blue dresses, with their colors dull and
indistinct, the lace crumpled and yellow, retaining in their folds
something of the living fragrance of the form they once had covered. The
whole past of the dead woman was there. With superstitious care, she had
stored away the gowns of the different periods of her life, as if she
had been afraid to get rid of them, to tear out a part of her life.

As the painter looked at some of these gowns, he felt the same emotion
as if they were old friends who had suddenly appeared like an unexpected
surprise. A pink skirt recalled the happy days in Rome; a blue suit
brought to his memory the Piazza di san Marco, and he thought he heard
the fluttering of the doves and the distant rumble of the noisy _Ride of
the Valkyries_. The dark, cheap suits that belonged to the cruel days of
struggle hung at the back of the closet, like the garb of suffering and
sacrifice. A straw hat, bright as a summer wood, covered with red
flowers and with cherries, seemed to smile to him from a shelf. Oh, he
knew that too! Many a time its sharp edge of straw had stuck into his
forehead, when at sunset on the roads of the Roman Compagna he used to
bend down, with his arm around his little wife's waist, to kiss her lips
that trembled softly, while from the distance in the blue mist came the
tinkle of the bells of the flocks and the mournful songs of the
drivers.

That youthful perfume, grown old in its confinement, which poured from
the closets in waves, with the rush of an old wine that escapes from the
dusty bottle in spurts, spoke to him of the past, calling up the joys
that were dead. His senses trembled, a subtle intoxication crept over
him. He fancied he had fallen into a sea of perfume that buffeted him
with its waves, playing with him as if he were an inert body. It was the
scent of youth that came back to him; the incense of the happy days,
fainter, more subtle with the regret of dead years. It was the perfume
of her beauty which one night in Rome had made him sigh admiringly.

"I worship you, Josephina. You are as fair as Goya's little _Maja_. You
are the _Maja Desnuda_."

Holding his breath like a swimmer, he delved into the depths of the
closets, reaching out his hands greedily, yet eager to get out of there,
to return, as soon as he could, to the sur