“But you will not refuse me now?” he said. “I beg—I pray of you—let me see your face.”
“It is not possible. I do not wish you to know me again if we ever meet.”
“Why not?” he said eagerly. “For Heaven’s sake, do not be so distant with me.”
“I come here at your wish, monsieur, and you pay me to be your model.—Monsieur insults me once more.”
“No!” he cried passionately, as he threw down palette and brush; “a man cannot insult a woman he loves with all his soul.”
He took a step or two towards her, but with one quick movement, she stooped and swung the great cloak about her shoulders, and, unseen by him, caught up the knife he had so recently held. The next moment she made for the inner room, but he intercepted her.
“No, no!” he cried wildly. “You must not leave me again like this. Listen: you will hear me. Once for all, you shall remove that veil.”
“I—will—not,” she cried firmly. “Why does monsieur wish to see my face?”
“You, as a woman, know,” he cried, in a low, excited voice. “It is of no use. I must speak now. I tell you again, I love you.”
“It is not true!” she whispered. “You dare to tell me that, when I know that it is not true. That is the woman whom you love, monsieur!” and she pointed scornfully at the face upon the canvas.