“I am the father of Julio.”
And he walked into the apartment with the confidence of a man entirely familiar with his surroundings.
By good luck, the artist was alone, and was not obliged to tear frantically from one end of the room to the other, hiding the traces of convivial company; but he was a little slow in regaining his self-control. He had heard so much about Don Marcelo and his bad temper, that he was very uncomfortable at this unexpected appearance in the studio. . . . What could the fearful man want?
His tranquillity was restored after a furtive, appraising glance. His friend’s father had aged greatly since the beginning of the war. He no longer had that air of tenacity and ill-humor that had made him unapproachable. His eyes were sparkling with childish glee; his hands were trembling slightly, and his back was bent. Argensola, who had always dodged him in the street and had thrilled with fear when sneaking up the stairway in the avenue home, now felt a sudden confidence. 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. 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.