is impurity disappeared from the house and went to
hide away in a convent where they upheld the artistic prestige of their
father.

Sometimes the great painter hesitated before a _Purisima_, which was
always the same, as if he painted it with a stencil. Then he spoke
mysteriously to his disciple:

"Mariano, tell the gentlemen not to come to-morrow. We have a model."

And when the studio was closed to the priests and the other respectable
friends, with heavy step in came Rodriguez, a policeman, with a
cigarette stub under his heavy bristling mustache and one hand on the
handle of his sword. Dismissed from the gendarmerie for intoxication and
cruelty, and finding himself without employment, by some strange chance
he began to devote himself to serving as a painter's model. The pious
artist, who held him in a sort of terror, nagged by his constant
petitions, had secured for him this position as policeman, and Rodriguez
took advantage of every opportunity to show his rough appreciation,
slapping the master's shoulders with his great hands and blowing in his
face, his breath redolent with nicotine and alcohol.

"Don Rafael, you are my father. If anybody touches you, I'll fix him,
whoever he is."

And the ascetic artist, with a feeling of satisfaction at this
protection, blushed and waved his hands in protest against the frankness
of the rude fellow with his threats for the men he would "fix."

He threw his helmet on the ground, handed his heavy sword to Mariano,
and like a man that knows his duty, took out of the bottom of a chest a
white woolen tunic and a piece of blue cloth like a cloak, placing both
garments on his body with the skill of practice.

Mariano looked at him with astonished eyes but without any temptation to
laugh. They were mysteries of art, surprises that were reserved only for
those who, like him, had the good fortune to live on terms of intimacy
with the great master.

"Ready, Rodriguez?" Don Rafael asked impatiently.

And Rodriguez, erect in his bath robe with the blue rag hanging from his
shoulders, clasped his hands and lifted his fierce gaze to the ceiling,
without ceasing to suck the stub that singed his mustache. The master
did not need the model except for the robes of the figure, to study the
folds of the celestial garment, which must not reveal the slightest
evidence of human contour. The possibility of copying a woman had never
passed through his imagination. That was falling into mater