"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. Yes I know! But God saw your heart—and his—and with God alone rests the balance of justice. You must not set yourself in opposition to the law; you,—such a harmonious note in work and life,—must not become a discord!"
She did not speak. Her hand lay passively in his, and he went on.
"Death is not the end of life. It is only the beginning of a new school of experience. Your very grief,—your present inaction, may for all we know, be injuring the soul of the man whose loss you mourn!"
She sighed.
"Do you think that possible—?"
"I do think it very possible," he answered. "Natural sorrow is not forbidden to us,—but a persistent dwelling on cureless grief is a trespass against the law. Moreover you have been endowed with a great talent,—it is not your own—it is lent to you to use for others, and you have no right to waste it. The world has taken your work with joy, with gratitude, with thanksgiving; will you say that you do not care for the world?—that you will do nothing more for it?—Because one love—one life, has been taken from you, will you discard all love, all life? Dear friend, that will not be reasonable,—not right, nor just, nor brave!"
A wistful longing filled her eyes.
"I wish Manuel were here!" she said plaintively. "He would understand!"