even though he might not paint anything. This afforded him the
opportunity, on the plea of lofty aestheticism, of sending out cards
of invitation and asking light women to his studio. He lived during
the night. Don Marcelo, upon investigating the artist's work, could not
contain his indignation. Every morning the two Desnoyers were accustomed
to greet the first hours of dawn--the father leaping from his bed, the
son, on his way home to his studio to throw himself upon his couch not
to wake till midday.

The credulous Dona Luisa would invent the most absurd explanations to
defend her son. Who could tell? Perhaps he had the habit of painting
during the night, utilizing it for original work. Men resort to so many
devilish things! . . .

Desnoyers knew very well what these nocturnal gusts of genius were
amounting to--scandals in the restaurants of Montmartre, and scrimmages,
many scrimmages. He and his gang, who believed that at seven a full
dress or Tuxedo was indispensable, were like a band of Indians, bringing
to Paris the wild customs of the plains. Champagne always made them
quarrelsome. So they broke and paid, but their generosities were almost
invariably followed by a scuffle. No one could surpass Julio in the
quick slap and the ready card. His father heard with a heavy heart the
news brought him by some friends thinking to flatter his vanity--his
son was always victorious in these gentlemanly encounters; he it was who
always scratched the enemy's skin. The painter knew more about fencing
than art. He was a champion with various weapons; he could box, and was
even skilled in the favorite blows of the prize fighters of the slums.
"Useless as a drone, and as dangerous, too," fretted his father. And
yet in the back of his troubled mind fluttered an irresistible
satisfaction--an animal pride in the thought that this hare-brained