_Egmont._--No, Claire, I am not he. _Claire._--How? _Egmont._--Listen, Claire! Let me sit down! (He seats himself, and she kneels before him on a footstool, rests her arms on his knees, and gazes in his eyes.) That Egmont is a morose, solemn, cold Egmont, obliged to be for ever on his guard, to appear now this and now that; harassed, misunderstood, and worried, when people think him gay and light-hearted; beloved by the people who know not their own minds, surrounded by friends in whom he does not confide, observed by men who desire to supplant him, toiling and tiring himself for no object nor any reward. Oh, let me hide him, let me not speak of his feelings. But this Egmont, Claire, is calm, sincere, happy; he is loved and known by the best of hearts, which he knows and loves in return, and which he presses to his own with boundless confidence and love. (He takes her in his arms.) This is thy Egmont. _Claire._--Thus let me die; the world has no further joy. The choice of subject for a picture has always appeared to me to show the real limit of an artist's intelligence; there is his thought, his poesy. Now I admit that the scene as described by the catalogue was admirably depicted. I looked for the painting, nevertheless, with a secret hope that I should find it mediocre and unworthy the high inspiration the artist had demanded from one of the _chef-d'œuvres_ of Goethe. Hélène had seemed to me too happy. If I had found her sad, this wicked and envious thought would never have entered my mind. I sought this picture for a long time. At last I discovered it placed in a most unfavourable light, and half hidden by the gigantic and massive frame of a large portrait. Frank's canvas was what is called an easel picture; it was about three feet high by two feet and a half wide. I have said that, to my shame, I arrived before the picture with a determination to find fault with it; but what immediately caused my malevolent feelings to disappear in an instant was, first, my surprise, and then my involuntary admiration, as I recognised the sweet face of Hélène, who had, doubtless, posed for the personage of Claire. It was Hélène, whose charm and unspeakable grace were still more idealised by the divine power of art, for art alone can give to the features it reproduces, and reproduces with fidelity, that inexplicable character, grandiose and almost superhuman, which is to the living features that which historic perspective is to events. The more I examined the picture, the more I admired, in spite of the pangs of my hateful jealousy, a talent full of freshness, melancholy, and elevation, joined to an intimate knowledge of nature and the passions.