Those
people had undoubtedly made great strides. He was not such a blind
patriot that he could not admit what was so evident. Within a few years
they had transformed their country, and their industry was astonishing
. . . but, well . . . it was simply impossible to have anything to do
with them. Each to his own, but may they never take a notion to envy
their neighbor! . . . Then he immediately repelled this last suspicion
with the optimism of a business man.
"They are going to be very rich," he thought. "Their affairs are
prospering, and he that is rich does not hunt quarrels. That war of
which some crazy fools are always dreaming would be an impossible
thing."
Young Desnoyers renewed his Parisian existence, living entirely in the
studio and going less and less to his father's home. Dona Luisa began to
speak of a certain Argensola, a very learned young Spaniard, believing
that his counsels might prove most helpful to Julio. She did not know
exactly whether this new companion was friend, master or servant. The
studio habitues also had their doubts. The literary ones always spoke
of Argensola as a painter. The painters recognized only his ability as a
man of letters. He was among those who used to come up to the studio
of winter afternoons, attracted by the ruddy glow of the stove and the
wines secretly provided by the mother, holding forth authoritatively
before the often-renewed bottle and the box of cigars lying open on the
table.
Pages:
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136