"No!" she replied proudly and mockingly, "but I have the whip."
She drew it quickly from the pocket of her fur-coat, and struck him in the face with the handle. He rose, and drew back a couple of paces.
"Now, are you ready to paint again?" she asked indifferently. He did not reply, but again went to the easel and took up his brush and palette.
The painting is marvelously successful. It is a portrait which as far as the likeness goes couldn't be better, and at the same time it seems to have an ideal quality. The colors glow, are supernatural; almost diabolical, I would call them.
The painter has put all his sufferings, his adoration, and all his execration into the picture.
* * * * *
Now he is painting me; we are alone together for several hours every day. To-day he suddenly turned to me with his vibrant voice and said: "You love this woman?"
"Yes."
"I also love her." His eyes were bathed in tears. He remained silent for a while, and continued painting.
"We have a mountain at home in Germany within which she dwells," he murmured to himself. "She is a demon."
* * * * *
The picture is finished. She insisted on paying him for it, munificently, in the manner of queens.
"Oh, you have already paid me," he said, with a tormented smile, refusing her offer.
Before he left, he secretly opened his portfolio, and let me look inside. I was startled. Her head looked at me as if out of a mirror and seemed actually to be alive.
"I shall take it along," he said, "it is mine; she can't take it away from me. I have earned it with my heart's blood."