, with a beauty that
was not of this world,--uncanny, spiritualized, as if it belonged to a
new humanity, free from coarse necessities, in which the last traces of
animal descent have died out. He gazed at the numerous portraits of
other times and recognized parts of them in the new work, but animated
by a light which came from within and changed the value of the colors,
giving to the face a strange unfamiliarity.

"You recognize her at last!" said the master, anxiously following the
impressions of his work in the eyes of his friend. "Is it she? Tell me,
don't you think it is like her?"

Cotoner lied compassionately. Yes, it was she, at last he saw her well
enough. She, but more beautiful than in life. Josephina had never looked
like that.

Now it was Renovales who looked with surprise and pity. Poor Cotoner!
Unhappy failure--pariah of art, who could not rise above the nameless
crowd and whose only feeling was in his stomach! What did he know about
such things? What was the use of asking his opinion?

He had not recognized Josephina, and nevertheless this canvas was his
best portrait, the most exact.

Renovales bore her within him, he saw her merely by retiring into his
thoughts. No one could know her better than he. The rest had forgotten
her. That was the way he saw her and that was what she had been.

IV

The Countess of Alberca succeeded in making her way, one afternoon, to
the master's studio.

The servant saw her arrive as usual in a cab, cross the garden, come up
the steps, and enter the reception room with the hasty step of a
resolute woman who goes straight ahead without hesitating. He tried to
block her way respectfully, going from side to side, meeting her every
time she started to one side to pass this obstacle. The master was
working! The master was not receiving callers! It was a strict order; he
could not make an exception! But she continued ahead with a frown, a
flash of cold wrath in her eyes, an evident determination to strike down
the servant, if it was necessary, and to pass over his body.

"Come, my good man, get out of the way."

And her haughty, irritated accent made the poor servant tremble and at a
loss to stop this invasion of rustling skirts and strong perfumes. In
one of her evolutions the fair lady ran into an Italian mosaic table, on
the center of which was the old jar. Her glance fell instinctively to
the bottom of the jar.

It was only an instant, but enough for her