"You must leave home, or she must. I beseech you, do not refuse me. Am I not your friend, your brother? Breaking off this shameful intrigue now--this minute--you can not erase the past, but you can at least preserve the future. Think of that noble woman, your wife! She would never survive such a shock as this would be! She worships in you the incarnation of genius and love. Do not force her to dash you from the pedestal where she has placed you. It is not alone for her I speak, but for yourself. Elaine is half your inspiration. Your paintings have been marvelous works of art ever since your marriage; and, now that you are untrue to her, see! you have not painted a stroke in two months. But I am only appealing to your interest. I wish to touch your heart. You are good; you would not voluntarily torture that loyal woman, who loves you so fondly, who worships you next to her Maker, whose life is purity and innocence itself. You are good and noble, Claude. Will you not promise me to shake off these odious fetters? Will you not, dear, dear friend?" Sirvin had gently extricated himself from Grenoble's embrace. Sinking into an arm-chair, he sat motionless, his head bowed, listening, but not touched by what his friend was saying. The sculptor saw that words, reproaches, supplications, were all in vain. He became angry, and, tearing the wet cloths from the bust of Claude in the center of the studio, he gravely, solemnly examined his work. Gradually tears came to his eyes. "It is fine," he said. "I love you, Claude. I put all my talent, all my soul, into this clay. I molded what I saw in you--your beauty, your warm heart, your genius, your inspired eloquence. It is wonderful, but I added goodness, and the portrait is not perfect--you are not good!" He buried his fingers in the soft clay, destroying in one moment the work of so many months, and, tearing it to pieces, threw the moist clay on the floor. "All gone! I thought you had a noble, loyal heart; you have none at all. I thought you a genius; but you are not. You are cruel, you are wicked, without strength and without goodness. There was a Claude Sirvin that I used to love; he is dead. Farewell, dear Claude--dead, dead and buried! buried and gone! Another grand promise of genius and truth crumbles to dust when the hour of fulfillment has arrived. Wretched man that I am! Claude is dead! Truth is dead! Oh, wretched world!" And he sobbed like a little child, while Claude dashed out of the room, conquered by his emotion. He heard Grenoble's accusations ringing in his ears, and he knew they were all true. This odious passion was destroying every thing good and noble in his character. His talent had flown, his honor was tarnished. He saw Elaine dying of grief, Paul committing suicide to end his disgrace.