‘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.’ ‘Ah! you will never love me enough--I know myself. Something which does not exist would be necessary--something which would make me forget everything. You were already unable to change me. You cannot accomplish a miracle!’ Then, as she protested and kissed him passionately, he went on: ‘Well, yes, save me! Yes, save me, if you don’t want me to kill myself! Lull me, annihilate me, so that I may become your thing, slave enough, small enough to dwell under your feet, in your slippers. Ah! to live only on your perfume, to obey you like a dog, to eat and sleep--if I could, if I only _could_!’ She raised a cry of victory: ‘At last you are mine! There is only I left, the other is quite dead!’ And she dragged him from the execrated painting, she carried him off triumphantly. The candle, now nearly consumed, flared up for a minute behind them on the steps, before the big painting, and then went out. It was victory, yes, but could it last?