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?"