I think even she was content; even she, who in her superb arrogance thought she was matchless and deathless.

Then came my reward; when the picture was done, her fancy had changed! A light scorn, a careless laugh, a touch of her fan on my cheek; could I not understand?
Was I still such a child?
Must I be broken more harshly in to learn to give place?
That was all! And at last her lackey pushed me back with his wand from her gates! What would you?
I had not known what a great lady's illicit caprices meant; I was still but a boy! She had killed me; she had struck my genius dead; she had made earth my hell--what of that?
She had her beauty eternal in the picture she needed, and the whole city rang with her loveliness as they looked on my work.

I have never painted again.

I came here.

What of that?
An artist the less then, the world did not care; a life the less soon, she will not care either!" Then, as the words ended, a great wave of blood beat back his breath and burst from the pent-up torture of his striving lungs, and stained red the dark and silken masses of his beard.