Yes, everything was Julio's handiwork . . . and the father
went from canvas to canvas, halting admiringly before the vaguest daubs
as though he could almost detect signs of genius in their nebulous
confusion.
"You think he has talent, really?" he asked in a tone that implored a
favorable reply. "I always thought him very intelligent . . . a little
of the diable, perhaps, but character changes with years. . . . Now he
is an altogether different man."
And he almost wept at hearing the Spaniard, with his ready, enthusiastic
speech, lauding the departed "diable," graphically setting forth the
way in which his great genius was going to take the world when his turn
should come.
The painter of souls finally worked himself up into feeling as much
affected as the father, and began to admire this old Frenchman with a
certain remorse, not wishing to remember how he had ranted against him
not so very long ago. What injustice! . . .
Don Marcelo clasped his hand like an old comrade. All of his son's
friends were his friends. He knew the life that young men lived.
. . . If at any time, he should be in any difficulties, if he needed an
allowance so as to keep on with his painting--there he was, anxious to
help him! He then and there invited him to dine at his home that very
night, and if he would care to come every evening, so much the better.
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