the
church of Saint Honore d'Eylau.

The father displayed more prudence. A man of his years could not expect
to mingle with the chums of a young artist. In a few months' time, Julio
passed entire weeks without going to sleep under the paternal roof.
Finally he installed himself permanently in his studio, occasionally
making a flying trip home that his family might know that he was still
in existence. . . . Some mornings, Desnoyers would arrive at the rue de
la Pompe in order to ask a few questions of the concierge. It was ten
o'clock; the artist was sleeping. Upon returning at midday, he learned
that the heavy sleep still continued. Soon after lunch, another visit
to get better news. It was two o'clock, the young gentleman was just
arising. So the father would retire, muttering stormily--"But when does
this painter ever paint?" . . .

At first Julio had tried to win renown with his brush, believing that
it would prove an easy task. In true artist fashion, he collected his
friends around him, South American boys with nothing to do but enjoy
life, scattering money ostentatiously so that everybody might know
of their generosity. With serene audacity, the young canvas-dauber
undertook to paint portraits. He loved good painting, "distinctive"
painting, with the cloying sweetness of a romance, that copied only the
forms of women. He had money, a good studio, his father was standing
behind him ready to help--why shouldn't he accomplish as much as many
others who lacked his opportunities? . . .

So he began his work by coloring a canvas entitled, "The Dance of the
Hours," a mere pretext for copying pretty girls and selecting buxom
models. These he would sketch at a mad speed, filling in the outlines
with blobs of multi-colored paint, and up to this point all went well.
Then he would begin to vacillate, remaining idle before the picture only
to put it in the corner in hope of later inspiration. It was the same
way with his various studies of feminine heads. Finding that he was
never able to finish anything, he soon became resigned, like one
who pants with fatigue before an obstacle waiting for a providential
interposition to save him. The important thing was to be a painter . . .
even though he might not paint anything. This afforded him the
opportunity, on the plea of lofty aestheticism, of sending out cards
of invitation and asking light women to his studio. He lived during
the night. Don Marcelo, upon investigating the art