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the mediocrity of his means. The walls of the garret were covered with



bits of paper on which were crayon sketches; he possessed only four

clean canvases. Colors were at that time costly, and the poor



gentleman gazed at a palette that was well-nigh bare. In the midst of

this poverty he felt within himself an indescribablewealth of heart



and the superabundant force of consuming genius. Brought to Paris by a

gentleman of his acquaintance, and perhaps by the monition of his own



talent, he had suddenly found a mistress,--one of those generous and

noble souls who are ready to suffer by the side of a great man;



espousing his poverty, studying to comprehend his caprices, strong to

bear deprivation and bestow love, as others are daring in the display



of luxury and in parading the insensibility of their hearts. The smile

which flickered on her lips brightened as with gold the darkness of



the garret and rivalled the effulgence of the skies; for the sun did

not always shine in the heavens, but she was always here,--calm and



collected in her passion, living in his happiness, his griefs;

sustaining the genius which overflowed in love ere it found in art its



destined expression.

"Listen, Gillette; come!"



The obedient, happy girl spranglightly on the painter's knee. She was

all grace and beauty, pretty as the spring-time, decked with the



wealth of feminine charm, and lighting all with the fire of a noble

soul.



"O God!" he exclaimed, "I can never tell her!"

"A secret!" she cried; "then I must know it."



Poussin was lost in thought.

"Tell me."



"Gillette, poor, beloved heart!"

"Ah! do you want something of me?"



"Yes."

"If you want me to pose as I did the other day," she said, with a



little pouting air, "I will not do it. Your eyes say nothing to me,

then. You look at me, but you do not think of me."



"Would you like me to copy another woman?"

"Perhaps," she answered, "if she were very ugly."



"Well," continued Poussin, in a grave tone, "if to make me a great

painter it were necessary to pose to some one else--"



"You are testing me," she interrupted; "you know well that I would not

do it."



Poussin bent his head upon his breast like a man succumbing to joy or

grief too great for his spirit to bear.



"Listen," she said, pulling him by the sleeve of his worn doublet, "I

told you, Nick, that I would give my life for you; but I never said--



never!--that I, a living woman, would renounce my love."

"Renounce it?" cried Poussin.



"If I showed myself thus to another you would love me no longer; and I

myself, I should feel unworthy of your love. To obey your caprices,



ah, that is simple and natural! in spite of myself, I am proud and

happy in doing thy dear will; but to another, fy!"



"Forgive me, my own Gillette," said the painter, throwing himself at

her feet. "I would rather be loved than famous. To me thou art more



precious than fortune and honors. Yes, away with these brushes! burn

those sketches! I have been mistaken. My vocation is to love thee,--



thee alone! I am not a painter, I am thy lover. Perish art and all its

secrets!"



She looked at him admiringly, happy and captivated by his passion. She

reigned; she felt instinctively that the arts were forgotten for her



sake, and flung at her feet like grains of incense.

"Yet he is only an old man," resumed Poussin. "In you he would see



only a woman. You are the perfect woman whom he seeks."

"Love should grant all things!" she exclaimed, ready to sacrifice



love's scruples to reward the lover who thus seemed to sacrifice his

art to her. "And yet," she added, "it would be my ruin. Ah, to suffer



for thy good! Yes, it is glorious! But thou wilt forget me. How came

this cruel thought into thy mind?"






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