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."

Forgetting all but his art,