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!'

Then, in the emotion caused him by her infinite passion and grief, he
yielded. He pressed her to him, sobbing and stammering:

'It is true I had that frightful thought--I should have done it, and I
only resisted on thinking of that unfinished picture. But can I still
live if work will have nothing more to do with me? How can I live after
that, after what's there, what I spoilt just now?'

'I will love you, and you will live