“Listen, Gillette; come!”

The obedient, happy girl sprang lightly 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?”

“It came there, and yet I love thee,” he said, with a sort of contrition.  “Am I, then, a wretch?”

“Let us consult Pere Hardouin.”

“No, no! it must be a secret between us.”

“Well, I will go; but thou must not be present,” she said.  “Stay at the door, armed with thy dagger.  If I cry out, enter and kill the man.”