Renovales laughed at the terror which had so often made him stop in
front of the locked door. Death had left no trace. Nothing there
reminded him of Josephina. In the atmosphere floated that smell of
closeness, that odor of dust and dampness which one finds in all rooms
that have long been closed.

The time was passing, the insignia must be found, and Renovales, already
accustomed to the room, opened the clothes-press, expecting to find them
in it.

There, too, the wood seemed to scatter, as he opened the door, a perfume
like that of the other room. It was fainter, more vague, more distant.

Renovales thought it was an illusion of his senses. But no; from the
depths of the clothes-press came an invisible vapor wrapping him in its
caressing breath. There were no clothes there. His eyes recognized
immediately in the bottom of a compartment the boxes he was looking for;
but he did not reach out his hands for them; he stood motionless, lost
in the contemplation of a thousand trivial objects that reminded him of
Josephina.

She was there, too; she came forth to meet him, more personal, more real
than from among the heap of old clothes. Her gloves seemed to preserve
the warmth and the outline of those hands which once had run caressingly
through the artist's hair, her collars reminded him of her warm ivory
neck where he used to place his kisses.

His hands turned over everything with painful curiosity. An old fan,
carefully put away, seemed to move him in spite of its sorry appearance.
Among its broken folds he could see a trace of old colors--a head he had
painted when his wife was only a friend--a gift for Senorita de
Torrealta who wanted to have something done by the young artist. At the
bottom of a case shone two huge pearls, surrounded by diamonds; a
present from Milan, the first jewel of real worth which he had bought
for his wife, as they were walking through the Piazza del Duomo; a whole
remittance from his manager in Rome invested in this costly trinket
which made the little woman flush with pleasure while her eyes rested
on him with intense gratitude.

His eager fingers, as they turned over boxes, belts, handkerchiefs and
gloves, came upon souvenirs with which her person was forever connected.
That poor woman had lived for him, only for him, as if her own existence
were nothing, as if it had no meaning unless it were joined with his. He
found carefully put away among belts and band-boxes--photographs of the