tears protested against the violence done to her
purity. Poussin cursed himself, and repented of his folly in bringing
this treasure from their peaceful garret. Once more he became a lover
rather than an artist; scruples convulsed his heart as he saw the eye of
the old painter regain its youth and, with the artist's habit, disrobe
as it were the beauteous form of the young girl. He was seized with the
jealous frenzy of a true lover.

"Gillette!" he cried; "let us go."

At this cry, with its accent of love, his mistress raised her eyes
joyfully and looked at him; then she ran into his arms.

"Ah! you love me still?" she whispered, bursting into tears.

Though she had had strength to hide her suffering, she had none to hide
her joy.

"Let me have her for one moment," exclaimed the old master, "and you
shall compare her with my Catherine. Yes, yes; I consent!"

There was love in the cry of Frenhofer as in that of Poussin, mingled
with jealous coquetry on behalf of his semblance of a woman; he seemed
to revel in the triumph which the beauty of his virgin was about to win
over the beauty of the living woman.

"Do not let him retract," cried Porbus, striking Poussin on the
shoulder. "The fruits of love wither in a day; those of art are
immortal."

"Can it be," said Gillette, looking steadily at Poussin and at Porbus,
"that I am nothing more than a woman to him?"

She raised her head proudly; and as she glanced at Frenhofer with
flashing eyes she saw her lover gazing once more at the picture he had
formerly taken for a Giorgione.

"Ah!" she cried, "let us go in; he never looked at me like that!"

"Old man!" said Poussin, roused from his meditation by Gillette's voice,
"see this sword. I will plunge it into your heart at the first cry of
that young girl. I will set fire to your house, and no one shall escape
from it. Do you understand me?"

His look was gloomy and the tones of his voice were terrible. His
attitude, and above all the gesture with which he laid his hand upon
the weapon, comforted the poor girl, who half forgave him for thus
sacrificing her to his art and to his hopes of a glorious future.

Porbus and Poussin remained outside the closed door of the atelier,
looking at one another in silence. At first the painter of the Egyptian
Mary uttered a few exclamations: "Ah, she unclothes herself!"--"He tells
her to stand in the light!"--"He compares them!" but he grew silent as
he watched the mournful face