Renovales breathed more freely when he was left alone. He had ended forever the error of his life. The only thing in this visit that left a sting was the countess's hesitation before the portrait. She had recognized it sooner than Cotoner, but she too had hesitated. No one remembered Josephina; he alone kept her image.
That same afternoon, before his old friend came, the master received another call. His daughter appeared in the studio. Renovates had divined that it was she before she entered, by the whirl of joy and overflowing life which seemed to precede her.
She had come to see him; she had promised him a visit months ago. And her father smiled indulgently, recalling some of her complaints when he last visited her. Just to see him?
Milita pretended to be absorbed in examining the studio which she had not entered for a long time.
"Look!" she exclaimed. "Why, it's mamma!"
She looked at the picture with astonishment, but the master seemed pleased at the readiness with which she had recognized her. At last, his daughter! The instinct of blood! The poor master did not see the hasty glance at the other portraits which had guided the girl in her induction.
"Do you like it? Is it she?" he asked as anxiously as a novice.
Milita answered rather vaguely. Yes, it was good; perhaps a little more beautiful than she was. She never knew her like that.
"That is true," said the master, "You never saw her in her good days. But she was like that before you were born. Your poor mother was very beautiful."
But his daughter did not manifest any great enthusiasm over the picture. It seemed strange to her. Why was the head at one end of the canvas? What was he going to add? What did those lines mean? The master tried to explain, almost blushing, afraid to tell his intention to his daughter, suddenly overcome by paternal modesty. He was not sure as yet what he would do; he had to decide on a dress to suit her. And in a sudden access of tenderness, his eyes grew moist and he kissed his daughter.