"An artistic caprice."
"How well you have put it, Auntie! I never thought of that, never said it. An artistic caprice! Henri too: an art-nouveau caprice? Why not?"
"Oh, no, Emilie ... take care!"
"Auntie, we are so small. We don't make any difference. What do people like us matter, women like us, girls such as I was? Nothing. Nothing. Why make tragedies of our lives? Why not rather make them into something fanciful, something fanciful and artistic?" And she made a painter's gesture with her fore-finger and thumb. "When we are dead, it's finished.... What do we matter, that we should be tragic? That is all very well for heroes and heroines ... but not for us. I will not have my life a tragedy. I started with a mistake. Since then, I have conquered my life and given it a definite aim. Do try and see, Auntie...."
"I see, Emilie. But you forget...."
"What?"
"The bonds...."
"Which I unloose...."
"Which you cannot unloose."
"Yes, I can."