telry where he was
lodging. Returning presently upon his steps, he ran up the miserable
stairway with anxious rapidity until he reached an upper chamber
nestling between the joists of a roof "en colombage,"--the plain, slight
covering of the houses of old Paris. Near the single and gloomy window
of the room sat a young girl, who rose quickly as the door opened, with
a gesture of love; she had recognized the young man's touch upon the
latch.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"It is--it is," he cried, choking with joy, "that I feel myself a
painter! I have doubted it till now; but to-day I believe in myself. I
can be a great man. Ah, Gillette, we shall be rich, happy! There is gold
in these brushes!"

Suddenly he became silent. His grave and earnest face lost its
expression of joy; he was comparing the immensity of his hopes with the
mediocrity of his means. The walls of the garret were covered with bits
of paper on which were crayon sketches; he possessed only four clean
canvases. Colors were at that time costly, and the poor gentleman gazed
at a palette that was well-nigh bare. In the midst of this poverty
he felt within himself an indescribable wealth of heart and the
superabundant force of consuming genius. Brought to Paris by a gentleman
of his acquaintance, and perhaps by the monition of his own talent, he
had suddenly found a mistress,--one of those generous and noble souls
who are ready to suffer by the side of a great man; espousing his
poverty, studying to comprehend his caprices, strong to bear deprivation
and bestow love, as others are daring in the display of luxury and in
parading the insensibility of their hearts. The smile which flickered on
her lips brightened as with gold the darkness of the garret and rivalled
the effulgence of the skies; for the sun did not always shine in the
heavens, but she was always here,--calm and collected in her passion,
living in his happiness, his griefs; sustaining the genius which
overflowed in love ere it found in art its destined expression.

"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