"They weren't all mine," she finally spoke, staring at her feet with a heavy sense of defeat, fighting any sentimentality she felt toward her own works. Most of them were old and painted out of a need to escape crippling boredom, although there were a few pieces that had meant a lot to her at the time. Mabelle could tell it was a very personal attack against her, even if Michel's victory in hurting her was for different reasons than perhaps he anticipated. Still, she was beginning to recognize that maybe he was as capable of cruelty as he boasted, previously dismissing it as all talk.
"I made an agreement with the Louvre to donate what I had... I too believe that they belong to the people, to Paris. Perhaps mine weren't worth saving," and she again stared at the one he had saved with some confusion, wondering what made it alone salvaged, "but... you at least didn't burn the Da Vinci or the Rembrandt paintings, did you?" She had a small Renaissance collection as well that she used as inspiration, and the thought of it in ashes was mildly upsetting.