Forgetting all but his art, Poussin clasped her in his arms.

“He loves me no longer!” thought Gillette, when she was once more alone.

She regretted her promise.  But before long she fell a prey to an anguish far more cruel than her regret; and she struggled vainly to drive forth a terrible fear which forced its way into her mind.  She felt that she loved him less as the suspicion rose in her heart that he was less worthy than she had thought him.

CHAPTER II

Three months after the first meeting of Porbus and Poussin, the former went to see Maitre Frenhofer.  He found the old man a prey to one of those deep, self-developed discouragements, whose cause, if we are to believe the mathematicians of health, lies in a bad digestion, in the wind, in the weather, in some swelling of the intestines, or else, according to casuists, in the imperfections of our moral nature; the fact being that the good man was simply worn out by the effort to complete his mysterious picture.  He was seated languidly in a large oaken chair of vast dimensions covered with black leather; and without changing his melancholy attitude he cast on Porbus the distant glance of a man sunk in absolute dejection.

“Well, maitre,” said Porbus, “was the distant ultra-marine, for which you journeyed to Brussels, worthless?  Are you unable to grind a new white?  Is the oil bad, or the brushes restive?”

“Alas!” cried the old man, “I thought for one moment that my work was accomplished; but I must have deceived myself in some of the details.  I shall have no peace until I clear up my doubts.  I am about to travel; I go to Turkey, Asia, Greece, in search of models.  I must compare my picture with various types of Nature.  It may be that I have up there,” he added, letting a smile of satisfaction flicker on his lip, “Nature herself.  At times I am half afraid that a brush may wake this woman, and that she will disappear from sight.”

He rose suddenly, as if to depart at once.  “Wait,” exclaimed Porbus.  “I have come in time to spare you the costs and fatigues of such a journey.”

“How so?” asked Frenhofer, surprised.

“Young Poussin is beloved by a woman whose incomparable beauty is without imperfection.  But, my dear master, if he consents to lend her to you, at least you must let us see your picture.”

The old man remained standing, motionless, in a state bordering on stupefaction.  “What!” he at last exclaimed, mournfully.  “Show my creature, my spouse?—­tear off the veil with which I have chastely hidden my joy?  It would be prostitution!  For ten years I have lived with this woman; she is mine, mine alone! she loves me!  Has she not smiled upon me as, touch by touch, I painted her?  She has a soul,—­the soul with which I endowed her.  She would blush if other eyes than mine beheld her.  Let her be seen?—­where is the husband, the lover, so