"Ah you do not know--you do not understand!" she said. "I am not
thinking of myself--indeed I am not! But I feel as if my work--my
picture--had killed Florian! I hate myself!--I hate everything I
have ever done, or could ever possibly do. I see him night and day
in those horrible flames!--Oh God! those cruel flames!--he seems to
reproach me,--even to curse me for his death!"
She shuddered and turned her face away. Cyrillon ventured to take
her hand.
"That is not like you, dear friend!" he said, his rich voice
trembling with the pity he felt for her. "That is not like your
brave spirit! You look only at one aspect of grief--you see the
darkness of the cloud, but not its brighter side. If I were to say
that he whom you loved so greatly has perhaps been taken to save him
from even a worse fate, you would be angry with me. You loved him--
yes; and whatever he did or attempted to do, even to your injury,
you would have loved him still had he lived! That is the angel half
of woman's nature. You would have given him your fame had he asked
you for it,--you would have pardoned him a thousand times over had
he sought your pardon,--you would have worked for him like a slave
and been content to die with your genius unrecognized if that would
have pleased him.
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