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Manuel returned to Alex’s studio. That worthy, displeased with the boy because he had left the place without so much as saying good-bye, refused to allow him to stay there again.

The bohemians who forgathered at the studio asked how Bernardo was getting along, and uttered a string of humorous commentaries upon the lot that Fate held in store for the photographer.

“So Roberto developed his plates?” asked one.

“Yes.”

“He retouched his plates and his wife,” added another.

“What a shameless wretch that Bernardo is!”

“Not at all. He’s a philosopher of Candide’s school. Be a cuckold and cultivate your garden. There lies true happiness.”

“And what are you going to do now?” asked Alex sarcastically of Manuel.

“I don’t know. I’ll look for employment.”

“See here, do you fellows know a man by the name of Señor Don Bonifacio Mingote, who lives on the third floor of this house?” asked Don Servando Arzubiaga, the thin, indifferent gentleman.

“No.”

“He’s an employment agent. He can’t have very good jobs on his list, or he’d have got himself one. I know him through the newspaper; he was formerly the representative for certain mineral waters and used to bring advertisements. He was telling me the other day that he needed a young fellow.”