The painter has put all his sufferings, his adoration, and all his
execration into the picture.
* * * * *
Now he is painting me; we are alone together for several hours every
day. To-day he suddenly turned to me with his vibrant voice and said:
"You love this woman?"
"Yes."
"I also love her." His eyes were bathed in tears. He remained silent
for a while, and continued painting.
"We have a mountain at home in Germany within which she dwells," he
murmured to himself. "She is a demon."
* * * * *
The picture is finished. She insisted on paying him for it,
munificently, in the manner of queens.
"Oh, you have already paid me," he said, with a tormented smile,
refusing her offer.
Before he left, he secretly opened his portfolio, and let me look
inside. I was startled. Her head looked at me as if out of a mirror
and seemed actually to be alive.
"I shall take it along," he said, "it is mine; she can't take it
away from me. I have earned it with my heart's blood."
* * * * *
"I am really rather sorry for the poor painter," she said to me to-
day, "it is absurd to be as virtuous as I am. Don't you think so too?"
I did not dare to reply to her.
"Oh, I forgot that I am talking with a slave; I need some fresh air,
I want to be diverted, I want to forget.
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