Recalling his apprenticeship as a wood carver, he began to hope that the artistic instincts which poverty had extinguished in him were, perhaps, reappearing in his son.  What if this lazy boy, this lively genius, hesitating before taking up his walk in life, should turn out to be a famous painter, after all! . . .  So he agreed to all of Julio’s caprices, the budding artist insisting that for his first efforts in drawing and coloring, he needed a separate apartment where he could work with more freedom.  His father, therefore, established him near his home, in the rue de la Pompe in the former studio of a well-known foreign painter.  The workroom and its annexes were far too large for an amateur, but the owner had died, and Desnoyers improved the opportunity offered by the heirs, and bought at a remarkable bargain, the entire plant, pictures and furnishings.

Dona Luisa at first visited the studio daily like a good mother, caring for the well-being of her son that he may work to better advantage.  Taking off her gloves, she emptied the brass trays filled with cigar stubs and dusted the furniture powdered with the ashes fallen from the pipes.  Julio’s visitors, long-haired young men who spoke of things that she could not understand, seemed to her rather careless in their manners. . . .  Later on she also met there women, very lightly clad, and was received with scowls by her son.  Wasn’t his mother ever going to let him work in peace? . . .  So the poor lady, starting out in the morning toward the rue de la Pompe, stopped midway and went instead to the church of Saint Honore d’Eylau.

The father displayed more prudence.  A man of his years could not expect to mingle with the chums of a young artist.  In a few months’ time, Julio passed entire weeks without going to sleep under the paternal roof.  Finally he installed himself permanently in his studio, occasionally making a flying trip home that his family might know that he was still in existence. . . .  Some mornings, Desnoyers would arrive at the rue de la Pompe in order to ask a few questions of the concierge.  It was ten o’clock; the artist was sleeping.  Upon returning at midday, he learned that the heavy sleep still continued.  Soon after lunch, another visit to get better news.  It was two o’clock, the young gentleman was just arising.  So the father would retire, muttering stormily—­“But when does this painter ever paint?” . . .

At first Julio had tried to win renown with his brush, believing that it would prove an easy task.  In true artist fashion, he collected his friends around him, South American boys with nothing to do but enjoy life, scattering money ostentatiously so that everybody might know of their generosity.  With serene audacity, the young canvas-dauber undertook to paint portraits.  He loved good painting, “distinctive” painting, with the cloying sweetness of a romance, that copied only the forms of women.  He had money, a good studio, his father was standing behind him ready to help—­why shouldn’t he accomplish as much as many others who lacked his opportunities? . . .