“The Painting is not shit,' said Lucien.'I know,' said Henri. 'That was just part of the subterfuge. I am of royal lineage; subterfuge is one of the many talents we carry in our blood, along with guile and hemophilia.”

“These dogs are not fighting.""Yes they are. Like the paintings we saw in the Louvre," said Lucien. "Gecko-Roman wrestling Father called it.""Ah, of course," said Pissarro, as if it had become clear. "Yes, Gecko-Roman dog wrestling. Superb! I presume you haven't shown your wrestling dogs to Madame Lessard, then.”

“The Holy Mother has many faces, but you know it's her from her blue cloak. She is said to be the spirit in all women." "Look, here she is naked and the baby Jesus has wings, " said Lucien."That is not the Holy Mother, that's Venus and that's not Jesus, that is Cupid, the Roman god of love.""Wouldn't she have the spirit of the Holy Mother as well?""No, she is a pagan myth.""What about Maman? Is the spirit of the Holy Mother in her?""No, Lucien, your mother is also a pagan myth. Come, look at these paintings of wrestlers.”

“I love you, Lucien, but I am a muse, you are an artist, I am not here to make you comfortable.”

“They are between. Not what they used to be, and not what they have become. In those times, they are nothing. And I am invisible, and I am nothing too. That is the true demimonde, Lucien, and the secret is, it is not always desperate and dark. Sometimes it is just nothing. No burden of potential or regret. There are worse things than being nothing, my friend.”

“Love them all," said Renoir. "That is the secret, young man. Love them all." The painter let go of his arm and shrugged. "Then, even if your paintings are shit, you will have loved them all.”

“I'm beginning to wonder," said Kent, sitting down now on an overturned wooden tub. "Who do I serve? Why am I here?"You are here, because, in the expanding ethical ambiguity of our situation, you are steadfast in your righteousness. It is to you, our banished friend, that we all turn—a light amid the dark dealings of family and politics. You are the moral backbone on which the rest of us hang our bloody bits. Without you we are merely wiggly masses of desire writhing in our own devious bile."Really?" asked the old knight.Aye," said I.I'm not sure I want to keep company with you lot, then.”