"Gillette!" he cried; "let us go."
At this cry, with its
accent of love, his
mistress raised her eyes
joyfully and looked at him; then she ran into his arms.
"Ah! you love me still?" she whispered, bursting into tears.
Though she had had strength to hide her
suffering, she had none to
hide her joy.
"Let me have her for one moment," exclaimed the old master, "and you
shall compare her with my Catherine. Yes, yes; I consent!"
There was love in the cry of Frenhofer as in that of Poussin, mingled
with
jealous coquetry on
behalf of his
semblance of a woman; he seemed
to revel in the
triumph which the beauty of his
virgin was about to
win over the beauty of the living woman.
"Do not let him retract," cried Porbus,
striking Poussin on the
shoulder. "The fruits of love
wither in a day; those of art are
immortal."
"Can it be," said Gillette, looking
steadily at Poussin and at Porbus,
"that I am nothing more than a woman to him?"
She raised her head
proudly; and as she glanced at Frenhofer with
flashing eyes she saw her lover gazing once more at the picture he had
formerly taken for a Giorgione.
"Ah!" she cried, "let us go in; he never looked at me like that!"
"Old man!" said Poussin, roused from his
meditation by Gillette's
voice, "see this sword. I will
plunge it into your heart at the first
cry of that young girl. I will set fire to your house, and no one
shall escape from it. Do you understand me?"
His look was
gloomy and the tones of his voice were terrible. His
attitude, and above all the
gesture with which he laid his hand upon
the
weapon, comforted the poor girl, who half forgave him for thus
sacrificing her to his art and to his hopes of a
glorious future.
Porbus and Poussin remained outside the closed door of the atelier,
looking at one another in silence. At first the
painter of the
Egyptian Mary uttered a few exclamations: "Ah, she unclothes herself!"
--"He tells her to stand in the light!"--"He compares them!" but he
grew silent as he watched the
mournful face of the young man; for
though old
painters have none of such petty scruples in presence of
their art, yet they admire them in others, when they are fresh and
pleasing. The young man held his hand on his sword, and his ear seemed
glued to the panel of the door. Both men,
standingdarkly in the
shadow, looked like conspirators
waiting the hour to strike a tyrant.
"Come in! come in!" cried the old man,
beaming with happiness. "My
work is perfect; I can show it now with pride. Never shall
painter,
brushes, colors,
canvas, light, produce the rival of Catherine
Lescaut, the Beautiful Nut-girl."
Porbus and Poussin, seized with wild
curiosity, rushed into the middle
of a vast atelier filled with dust, where everything lay in
disorder,
and where they saw a few
paintings
hanging here and there upon the
walls. They stopped before the figure of a woman, life-sized and half
nude, which filled them with eager admiration.
"Do not look at that," said Frenhofer, "it is only a daub which I made
to study a pose; it is worth nothing. Those are my errors," he added,
waving his hand towards the enchanting compositions on the walls
around them.
At these words Porbus and Poussin, amazed at the
disdain which the
master showed for such marvels of art, looked about them for the
secret treasure, but could see it nowhere.
"There it is!" said the old man, whose hair fell in
disorder about his
face, which was
scarlet with supernatural
excitement. His eyes
sparkled, and his breast heaved like that of a young man beside
himself with love.
"Ah!" he cried, "did you not expect such
perfection? You stand before
a woman, and you are looking for a picture! There are such depths on
that
canvas, the air within it is so true, that you are
unable to
distinguish it from the air you breathe. Where is art? Departed,
vanished! Here is the form itself of a young girl. Have I not caught
the color, the very life of the line which seems to
terminate the
body? The same
phenomenon which we notice around fishes in the water
is also about objects which float in air. See how these outlines
spring forth from the
background. Do you not feel that you could pass
your hand behind those shoulders? For seven years have I
studied these
effects of light coupled with form. That hair,--is it not bathed in