"Your life!" And, pointing to the bruises on the young man's throat, "Your life, which you have not known how to employ! Your life, which you have bungled, wasted, destroyed and which, I propose to build up again, in accordance with an ideal of beauty, greatness and dignity that would make you giddy, my lad, if you saw the abyss into which my secret thought plunges. . . ." He had taken Gérard's head between his hands and he continued, eagerly: "You are free! No shackles! You have no longer the weight of your name to bear! You have got rid of that number with which society had stamped you as though branding you on the shoulder. You are free! In this world of slaves where each man bears his label you can either come and go unknown, invisible, as if you owned Gyges' ring . . . or else you can choose your own label, the one you like best! Do you understand the magnificent treasure which you represent to an artist . . . to yourself, if you like? A virgin life, a brand-new life! Your life is the wax which you have the right to fashion as you please, according to the whims of your imagination and the counsels of your reason." The young man made a gesture expressive of weariness: "Ah, what would you have me do with that treasure? What have I done with it so far? Nothing!" "Give it to me." "What can you do with it?" "Everything. If you are not an artist, I am; and an enthusiastic artist, inexhaustible, indomitable, exuberant. If you have not the Promethean fire, I have! Where you failed, I shall succeed. Give me your life." "Words, promises!" cried the young man, whose features began to glow with animation. "Empty dreams! I know my own worthlessness! I know my cowardice, my despondency, my efforts that come to nothing, all my wretchedness. To begin life anew, I should need a will which I do not possess. . . ." "I possess mine." "Friends. . . ." "You shall have them." "Means. . . ." "I am providing you with means . . . and such means! You will only have to dip, as one would dip into a magic coffer." "But who are you?" cried the young man, wildly. "To others, Prince Sernine. . . . To you . . . what does it matter? I am more than a prince, more than a king, more than an emperor. . . ." "Who are you? . . . Who are you?" stammered Baupré. "The Master . . . he who will and who can . . . he who acts. . . . There are no bounds to my will, there is none to my power. I am richer than the richest man alive, for his fortune is mine. . . . I am more powerful than the mightiest, for their might is at my service!" He took the other's head in his hands again and, looking deep into his eyes: "Be rich, too . . . be mighty. . . . I offer you happiness . . . and the joy of living . . . and peace for your poet's brain . . . and fame and glory also. . . . Do you accept?" "Yes . . . yes . . ." whispered Gérard, dazzled and overmastered. "What am I to do?" "Nothing." "But . . ."