And Desnoyers became alarmed, giving free rein to his bad humor,
when Chichi of evenings, would bring forth as aphorisms that which she
and her friends had been discussing, as a summary of their readings and
observations.--"Life is life, and one must live! . . . I will marry the
man I love, no matter who he may be. . . ."

But the daughter's independence was as nothing compared to the worry
which the other child gave the Desnoyers. Ay, that other one! . . .
Julio, upon arriving in Paris, had changed the bent of his aspirations.
He no longer thought of becoming an engineer; he wished to become
an artist. Don Marcelo objected in great consternation, but finally
yielded. Let it be painting! The important thing was to have some
regular profession. The father, while he considered property and wealth
as sacred rights, felt that no one should enjoy them who had not worked
to acquire them.

Recalling his apprenticeship as a wood carver, he began to hope that the
artistic instincts which poverty had extinguished in him were, perhaps,
reappearing in his son. What if this lazy boy, this lively genius,
hesitating before taking up his walk in life, should turn out to be
a famous painter, after all! . . . So he agreed to all of Julio's
caprices, the budding artist insisting that for his first efforts in
drawing and coloring, he needed a separate apartment where he could work
with more freedom. His father, therefore, established him near his home,
in the rue de la Pompe in the former studio of a well-known foreign
painter. The workroom and its annexes were far too large for an amateur,
but the owner had died, and Desnoyers improved the opportunity offered
by the heirs, and bought at a remarkable bargain, the entire plant,
pictures and furnishings.

Dona Luisa at first visited the studio daily like a good mother, caring
for the well-being of her son that he may work to better advantage.
Taking off her gloves, she emptied the brass trays filled with cigar
stubs and dusted the furniture powdered with the ashes fallen from the
pipes. Julio's visitors, long-haired young men who spoke of things
that she could not understand, seemed to her rather careless in their
manners. . . . Later on she also met there women, very lightly clad, and
was received with scowls by her son. Wasn't his mother ever going to let
him work in peace? . . . So the poor lady, starting out in the morning
toward the rue de la Pompe, stopped midway and went instead to