ge better."

Then he added with the satisfaction of an artist:

"Once I could paint only what I saw. Now I am different. It has cost me
a good deal, but you shall judge."

And in his voice there was the joy of difficulties overcome, the
certainty that he had produced a great work.

Cotoner came the next day, with the haste of curiosity, and entered the
studio closed to others.

"Look!" said the master with a proud gesture.

His friend looked. Opposite the window was a canvas on an easel; a
canvas for the most part gray, and on this, confused, interlaced lines
revealing some hesitancy over the various contours of a body. At one end
was a spot of color, to which the master pointed--a woman's head which
stood out sharply on the rough background of the cloth.

Cotoner stood in silent contemplation. Had the great artist really
painted that? He did not see the master's hand. Although he was an
unimportant painter, he had a good eye, and he saw in the canvas
hesitancy, fear, awkwardness, the struggle with something unreal which
was beyond his reach, which refused to enter the mold of form. He was
struck by the lack of likeness, by the forced exaggeration of the
strokes; the eyes unnaturally large, the tiny mouth, almost a point, the
bright skin with its supernatural pallor. Only in the pupils of the eyes
was there something remarkable--a glance that came from afar, an
extraordinary light which seemed to pass through the canvas.

"It has cost me a great deal. No work ever made me suffer so. This is
only the head; the easiest part. The body will come later; a divine
nude, such as has never been seen. And only you shall see it, only you!"

The Bohemian no longer looked at the picture. He was gazing at the
master, astonished at the work, disconcerted by its mystery.

"You see, without a model. Without the real before me," continued the
master. "_They_ were all the guide I had; but it is my best, my supreme
work."

_They_ were all the portraits of the dead woman, taken down from the
walls and placed on easels or chairs in a close circle around the
canvas.

His friend could not contain his astonishment, he could not pretend any
longer, overcome by surprise.

"Oh, but it is---- But you have been trying to paint Josephina!"

Renovales started back violently.

"Josephina, yes. Who else should it be? Where are your eyes?"

And his angry glance flashed at Cotoner.

The latter looked at the head again. Yes, it was she