I loved my art with a great love, and I was happy.

Even in Paris one can be so happy without wealth, while one is young.

The mirth of the Barriere--the grotesques of the Halles--the wooden booths on New Year's Day--the bright midnight crowds under the gaslights--the bursts of music from the gay cafes--the gray little nuns flitting through the snow--the Mardi Gras and the Old-World fooleries--the summer Sundays under the leaves while we laughed like children--the silent dreams through the length of the Louvre--dreams that went home with us and made our garret bright with their visions--one was happy in them--happy, happy!" His eyes were still fastened on the blank, white wall before him while he spoke, as though the things that his words sketched so faintly were painted in all their vivid colors on the dull, blank surface.

And so in truth they were, as remembrance pictured all the thousand perished hours of his youth.
"Happy--until she looked at me," he pursued, while his voice flew in feverish haste over the words.

"Why would she not let me be?
She had them all in her golden nets: nobles, and princes, and poets, and soldiers--she swept them in far and wide.