The transformed old man was beaming on him like a comrade, and making
excuses to justify his visit.
He had wished to see his son's home. Poor old man! He was drawn thither
by the same attraction which leads the lover to lessen his solitude by
haunting the places that his beloved has frequented. The letters from
Julio were not enough; he needed to see his old abode, to be on familiar
terms with the objects which had surrounded him, to breathe the same
air, to chat with the young man who was his boon companion.
His fatherly glance now included Argensola. . . . "A very interesting
fellow, that Argensola!" And as he thought this, he forgot completely
that, without knowing him, he had been accustomed to refer to him as
"shameless," just because he was sharing his son's prodigal life.
Desnoyers' glance roamed delightedly around the studio. He knew well
these tapestries and furnishings, all the decorations of the former
owner. He easily remembered everything that he had ever bought, in spite
of the fact that they were so many. His eyes then sought the personal
effects, everything that would call the absent occupant to mind; and he
pored over the miserably executed paintings, the unfinished dabs which
filled all the corners.
Were they all Julio's? . . . Many of the canvases belonged to Argensola,
but affected by the old man's emotion, the artist displayed a marvellous
generosity.
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