It often happens that our most disinterested and normal resolutions turn, against us. My work, which was also hers, was destined to be harmful to her. People gave my modelling unmerited praise. Criticism willingly caresses geniuses whom it believes to be short-lived: they can not be a burden; their course will soon be run, and consequently they may be praised without fear. A reputation at the Salons was bestowed upon me at once, and I was too sensible of the advantages which renown brings not to accept it with alacrity. Deceived by myself, I was astonished that Raymonde did not exhibit more satisfaction. Our first disagreement came from the offer of an illustrated magazine which, following a small exhibition where only amateurs of art could have seen it, asked permission to reproduce the Young Girl at the Fountain. Radiant with delight, I informed my wife, and was surprised at her repugnance to the idea. “One would think you were displeased,” I said. “Refuse permission: I beg you to,” was her reply. “But why?” “Did I not pose for the statue?” she demanded. “Of course.” “Don’t you see then it’s impossible?” “But I don’t understand, Raymonde,” I said. “Keep me all for yourself. Don’t share me with the world. I submitted to your exhibiting my statue. Was not that enough?” However that was not the sole reason for her protest, that sense of modesty. With unfailing intuition she fathomed too the limitations of my ability. Her love warned her not to allow me to seek that more extensive reputation which requires, besides enthusiasm, a daily perseverance and obstinacy. Later I realised better the thorough preparation and almost superhuman energy required by art, if the artist aspires to conquer time. And having realised them I gave up my art. But now this publicity attracted and fascinated me, and I considered my wife’s susceptibility singularly retrograde, absurd even. Should one not obey the conventions? Nowadays fashion has its laws and its rites. A politician, a writer, an artist belongs to the public, which is no longer content with dancers and actresses. And not only do the notabilities of to-day belong to the public in their official capacity; in their private life also, together with their wives and children, cats and dogs, country homes too if they have any, are they public property. They are seen spread out in magazines, in all forms, alone and with their families. Their poses are accompanied with captions for which a new style has been created, a style uniformly conventional. Their privacy is taken by assault. They consent to it willingly when they do not hunt for it from vanity or self-advertisement. They even appear regularly on commercial posters destined to advertise one or another of our modern industrial products.