She continued boldly, she spoke out freely—­she, so strangely compounded of passion and modesty.  And she was not mistaken in her jealousy when she accused his art of being responsible for his neglect of herself.  At the bottom of it all, there was the theory which he had repeated a hundred times in her presence:  genius should be chaste, an artist’s only spouse should be his work.

‘You repulse me,’ she concluded violently; ’you draw back from me as if I displeased you!  And you love what?  A nothing, a mere semblance, a little dust, some colour spread upon a canvas!  But, once more, look at her, look at your woman up yonder!  See what a monster you have made of her in your madness!  Are there any women like that?  Have any women golden limbs, and flowers on their bodies?  Wake up, open your eyes, return to life again!’

Claude, obeying the imperious gesture with which she pointed to the picture, had now risen and was looking.  The candle, which had remained upon the platform of the steps, illumined the nude woman like a taper in front of an altar, whilst the whole room around remained plunged in darkness.  He was at length awakening from his dream, and the woman thus seen from below, at a distance of a few paces, filled him with stupefaction.  Who had just painted that idol of some unknown religion?  Who had wrought her of metals, marbles, and gems?  Was it he who had unconsciously created that symbol of insatiable passion, that unhuman presentment of flesh, which had become transformed into gold and diamonds under his fingers, in his vain effort to make it live?  He gasped and felt afraid of his work, trembling at the thought of that sudden plunge into the infinite, and understanding at last that it had become impossible for him even to depict Reality, despite his long effort to conquer and remould it, making it yet more real with his human hands.

‘You see! you see!’ Christine repeated, victoriously.  And he, in a very low voice, stammered: 

’Oh! what have I done?  Is it impossible to create, then?  Haven’t our hands the power to create beings?’

She felt that he was giving way, and she caught him in her arms: 

’But why all this folly?—­why think of anyone but me—­I who love you?  You took me for your model, but what was the use, say?  Are those paintings of yours worth me?  They are frightful, they are as stiff, as cold as corpses.  But I am alive, and I love you!’

She seemed to be at that moment the very incarnation of passionate love.  He turned and looked at her, and little by little he returned her embrace; she was softening him and conquering him.

‘Listen!’ she continued.  ’I know that you had a frightful thought; yes, I never dared to speak to you about it, because one must never bring on misfortune; but I no longer sleep of a night, you frighten me.  This evening I followed you to that bridge which I hate, and I trembled, oh!  I thought that it was all over—­that I had lost you.  Oh, God! what would become of me?  I need you—­you surely do not wish to kill me!  Let us live and love one another—­yes, love one another!’