genius equal to all the tasks that lay
before him.

He had been brought to Paris by a nobleman among his friends, or
perchance by the consciousness of his powers; and in Paris he had found
a mistress, one of those noble and generous souls who choose to suffer
by a great man's side, who share his struggles and strive to understand
his fancies, accepting their lot of poverty and love as bravely and
dauntlessly as other women will set themselves to bear the burden of
riches and make a parade of their insensibility. The smile that stole
over Gillette's lips filled the garret with golden light, and rivaled
the brightness of the sun in heaven. The sun, moreover, does not always
shine in heaven, whereas Gillette was always in the garret, absorbed in
her passion, occupied by Poussin's happiness and sorrow, consoling the
genius which found an outlet in love before art engrossed it.

"Listen, Gillette. Come here."

The girl obeyed joyously, and sprang upon the painter's knee. Hers was
perfect grace and beauty, and the loveliness of spring; she was adorned
with all luxuriant fairness of outward form, lighted up by the glow of a
fair soul within.

"Oh! God," he cried; "I shall never dare to tell her--"

"A secret?" she cried; "I must know it!"

Poussin was absorbed in his dreams.

"Do tell it me!"

"Gillette... poor beloved heart!..."

"Oh! do you want something of me?"

"Yes."

"If you wish me to sit once more for you as I did the other day," she
continued with playful petulance, "I will never consent to do such a
thing again, for your eyes say nothing all the while. You do not think
of me at all, and yet you look at me--"

"Would you rather have me draw another woman?"

"Perhaps--if she were very ugly," she said.

"Well," said Poussin gravely, "and if, for the sake of my fame to come,
if to make me a great painter, you must sit to some one else?"

"You may try me," she said; "you know quite well that I would not."

Poussin's head sank on her breast; he seemed to be overpowered by some
intolerable joy or sorrow.

"Listen," she cried, plucking at the sleeve of Poussin's threadbare
doublet, "I told you, Nick, that I would lay down my life for you; but I
never promised you that I in my lifetime would lay down my love."

"Your love?" cried the young artist.

"If I showed myself thus to another, you would love me no longer, and
I should feel myself unworthy of you. Obedience to your fancies was a
natural and si