One after the other I will resuscitate these three women, I will make them pose before my eyes, according to the taste of my memory, as if the irreparable, and such an irreparable, were not between us! One after the other they come back to sit in this studio where I am writing these lines. One after the other I listen to them telling me, the first her joy, the second her sorrow, and the third the fury of her jealousy and the fever of her indignation; and yet to-day I do not know before which of the three women, and during which of the three periods I suffered the most, my suffering being the greater because I was obliged to be silent; and behind each of the confidences little Favier gave me, whether she were happy, melancholy, or angry, I could see the hard silhouette of the elegant rival, to whose caprices this joy, sorrow or anger were subordinated. Oh, God! what punishment for hybrid sentiments, those sentiments which have not the courage to go to the end in the logic of sacrifice or gratification, I experienced during those sittings! But still I would like to begin them again. I am writing of misery again and composing more elegies. Let me get on with the facts, facts, facts! The first period, that of joy, was not of long duration. The scene which marked its culminating point took place on the fourth of these sittings. The scene, though a fine expression, merely consisted of a conversation without any other incident than Camille’s entry into the studio with a bunch of roses—large, heavy roses of all shades—some pale with the dewy pallor of her face, others blonde and almost of the same golden tint as her beautiful hair, others as red as her pretty mouth with its lower lip so tightly rolled, others dark, which by contrast appeared to light up her bloodless colour that morning. The question was, which of these flowers I should choose for her to hold in her hand. I wished to paint her in an absolute unity of tone, like Gainsborough’s blue boy. She had to stand wearing a dress of blue gauze, that of her part, with blue silk mittens, blue velvet at the neck, blue ribbons at the sleeves, her feet in blue satin shoes, with no jewels but sapphires and turquoises on a ground of peacock blue velvetine, with no head-dress but the blonde cloud of her fine hair, with the back of one of her hands resting upon her supple hip, while she offered a rose with her other hand. “It is my youth that I will offer Jacques,” she said to me that morning while we studied the pose together; “my twenty-two years and my happiness. I am so happy now!” “You don’t experience any more evil temptations, then?” I asked.