said the old painter, "and you
shall compare her with my Catherine... yes--I consent."

Frenhofer's words likewise came from him like a lover's cry. His vanity
seemed to be engaged for his semblance of womanhood; he anticipated the
triumph of the beauty of his own creation over the beauty of the living
girl.

"Do not give him time to change his mind!" cried Porbus, striking
Poussin on the shoulder. "The flower of love soon fades, but the flower
of art is immortal."

"Then am I only a woman now for him?" said Gillette. She was watching
Poussin and Porbus closely.

She raised her head proudly; she glanced at Frenhofer, and her eyes
flashed; then as she saw how her lover had fallen again to gazing at the
portrait which he had taken at first for a Giorgione--

"Ah!" she cried; "let us go up to the studio. He never gave me such a
look."

The sound of her voice recalled Poussin from his dreams.

"Old man," he said, "do you see this blade? I will plunge it into your
heart at the first cry from this young girl; I will set fire to your
house, and no one shall leave it alive. Do you understand?"

Nicolas Poussin scowled; every word was a menace. Gillette took comfort
from the young painter's bearing, and yet more from that gesture, and
almost forgave him for sacrificing her to his art and his glorious
future.

Porbus and Poussin stood at the door of the studio and looked at each
other in silence. At first the painter of the Saint Mary of Egypt
hazarded some exclamations: "Ah! she has taken off her clothes; he told
her to come into the light--he is comparing the two!" but the sight of
the deep distress in Poussin's face suddenly silenced him; and though
old painters no longer feel these scruples, so petty in the presence of
art, he admired them because they were so natural and gracious in the
lover. The young man kept his hand on the hilt of his dagger, and his
ear was almost glued to the door. The two men standing in the shadow
might have been conspirators waiting for the hour when they might strike
down a tyrant.

"Come in, come in," cried the old man. He was radiant with delight. "My
work is perfect. I can show her now with pride. Never shall painter,
brushes, colors, light, and canvas produce a rival for 'Catherine
Lescault,' the beautiful courtezan!"

Porbus and Poussin, burning with eager curiosity, hurried into a vast
studio. Everything was in disorder and covered with dust, but they saw a
few pictures here a