"_De beaux restes_? I thank you for sparing me the plain
English. I must make up my Madonna out of _de beaux restes_! What a
masterpiece she will be! Old--old! Old--old!" he murmured.
"Never mind her age," I cried, revolted at what I had done, "never mind
my impression of her! You have your memory, your notes, your genius.
Finish your picture in a month. I pronounce it beforehand a masterpiece,
and I hereby offer you for it any sum you may choose to ask."
He stared, but he seemed scarcely to understand me. "Old--old!" he kept
stupidly repeating. "If she is old, what am I? If her beauty has faded,
where--where is my strength? Has life been a dream? Have I worshipped
too long--have I loved too well?" The charm, in truth, was broken. That
the chord of illusion should have snapped at my light accidental touch
showed how it had been weakened by excessive tension. The poor fellow's
sense of wasted time, of vanished opportunity, seemed to roll in upon his
soul in waves of darkness. He suddenly dropped his head and burst into
tears.
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