'Yes, I belong to that god, he may do what he pleases with me. I
should die if I no longer painted, and I prefer to paint and die of it.
Besides, my will is nothing in the matter. Nothing exists beyond art;
let the world burst!'

She drew herself up in a fresh spurt of anger. Her voice became harsh
and passionate again.

'But I--I am alive, and the women you love are lifeless! Oh! don't say
no! I know very well that all those painted women of yours are the only
ones you care about! Before I was yours I had already perceived it.
Then, for a short time you appeared to love me. It was at that period
you told me all that nonsense about your fondness for your creations.
You held such shadows in pity when you were with me; but it didn't last.
You returned to them, oh! like a maniac returns to his mania. I, though
living, no longer existed for you; it was they, the visions, who again
became the only realities of your life. What I then endured you never
knew, for you are wonderfully ignorant of women. I have lived by your
side without your ever understanding me. Yes, I was jealous of those
painted creatures. When I posed to you, only one idea lent me the
courage that I needed. I wanted to fight them, I hoped to win you back;
but you granted me nothing, not even a kiss on my shoulder! Oh, God!
how ashamed I sometimes felt! What grief I had to force back at finding
myself thus disdained and thus betrayed!'

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