"You lie. In your letters you often mentioned Prince Olsdorf. No doubt he is in Russia while his wife deceives him here; the idiot."
"Come, what can you do, when all is said? I can surely live as I like. After all, I am free."
"Why did you take up with me again on your return? You ought to have told me the truth."
"I had nothing to tell you. It was you who came back. I did not go to seek you."
"And what about your letters from Russia, in which you said you loved me still?"
Not knowing how to make an end of the scene, Paul became brutal.
"See now, Sarah, we have had enough of this," he said. "We loved one another; we don't love one another any longer. It happens every day. Instead of getting angry, let us remain good friends. We could not always have gone on as we were doing, could we? Besides—I should have had to tell you very soon—I am going to marry."
"You marry!" said Sarah, shrugging her shoulders, and not believing this fresh lie. "You marry! The princess, perhaps. You are a scoundrel. By heavens, your fine lady shall hear more of me. Good-bye."
And flinging open the door of the studio, the young girl rushed out.
"Ouf!" sighed the artist, flinging himself on the sofa. "That is over; so much the better."