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."
"No."
"Yes."
"No. You'll see, later, when you're older."
"I sha'n't grow old, Auntie."
"Oh, child, what do you know, what do you know? How can you tell what you will become,
