A master’s kiss in the name of Art! It was sweeter than the beautiful Carmen’s lips!
Coello was himself an artist, a great painter! Where could his peers be found—or those of Moor, and the architect Herrera, who entered soon after. Only those, who consecrated their lives to Art, the word of words, could be so noble, cheerful, kind.
How happy he was when he went to bed! how gratefully he told his beloved dead, in spirit, what had fallen to his lot, and how joyously he could pray!
The next morning he went with a full purse into the city, returning elegantly dressed, and with neatly-arranged locks. The peinador had given his budding moustache a bold twist upward.
He still looked thin and somewhat awkward, but the tall youth promised to become a stately man.
CHAPTER XX.
Towards noon Coello called Ulrich into Moor’s former studio; the youth could not fail to observe its altered appearance.
Long cartoons, containing sketches of figures, large paintings, just commenced or half-finished, leaned against the easels; mannikins, movable wooden horse’s heads, and plaster-models stood on the floor, the tables, and in the windows. Stuffs, garments, tapestries, weapons hung over the backs of the chairs, or lay on chests, tables and the stone-floor. Withered laurel-wreaths, tied with long ribbons, fluttered over the mantel-piece; one had fallen, dropped over the bald head of Julius Caesar, and rested on the breast.
The artist’s six cats glided about among the easels, or stretched their limbs on costly velvet and Arabian carpets.